The  gorgeous  prismatic  splendor  of  Yellowstone  Canyon  from  Artist's  Point  reveals  the  moods  of  the  da: 

wonderful  color  picture  of  nature  ont  fe^ 


aried  pictures.      In  the  noontide  splendor  Yellowstone  Canyon  is  supreme, 
inspiration  that  cannot  be  described 


In  looking  upon  this 


""i^^ofCii^ " .  CL^^'  tf-^y 


Joe  Mitchell  Chappie  is  a  member  of  the 
Rotary  Club  of  Boston,  Mass.,  editor  of  the 
"National  Magazine,"  author  of  "Heart 
Throbs"  and  motion-picture  producer  of 
stories  adapted  from  that  book.  Joe  Mit- 
chell, it  is  said,  knows  more  famous  men 
and  women  than  any  other  man  in  the 
world.  He  has  recently  been  appointed 
biographer   of    the    late   President   Harding. 


PhoLoh^  J   I..  Ha\ HLs 

This  is  not,  as  you  might  suppose  at  first  glance,  the  effect  of  a  depth 
bomb  at  sea.  It  is  merely  the  "Old  Faithful"  geyser  in  the  Yellowstone 
National  Park,  relieving  its  overcharged  feelings  in  its  customary  way 


ATOP  O'  THE 
WORLD 


Wonders  of  the 
Yellowstone  Dreamland 


c^ 


JOE  MITCHELL  CHAPPLE 


1922 
CHAPPLE  PUBLISHING  COMPANY.  Ltd. 

BOSTON 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

From  the 
Francis  P.  Farquhar 
Exploration  Library 

Gift  of 

The  Marjory  Bridge  Farquhar 

1972  Trust 

Copyright.  1922 

BT 

Joe  Mitchell  Chapple 


First  Edition,  September,  1922 
Second  Edition,  November,  1922 


PRINTED   AND  BOUND   IN  U.S.A. 


Lights  and  Shadows  on  a  Day  Eternal 

Chapter  Page 

I  A' Top  o'  the  World 9 

II  In  the  Light  of  the  Morning  Stars       .        .        .  12 

III  Sunrise  at  the  Terraces  of  the  Gods     ...  16 

IV  Forenoon  Fantasies  as  the  Day  Gathers  Color  .  25 
V  Entrancing  Twilight  in  the  Valleys      ...  31 

VI  Midnight  Revels  on  the  Devil's  Golf  Course      .  40 

VII  Glee  of  Geysers  in  Wee  Sma*  Hours    ...  44 

VIII  Dawn  at  Old  Faithful,  Eternity's  Time  Piece     .  52 

IX  Witchery  of  Moonlight  on  the  Lake    ...  57 

X  Splendors  of  Noontide  at  the  Canyon          .        .  63 

XI  Vesper  Lights  and  Shadows  in  God's  Temple    .  67 

XII  In  Fields  of  Snow  and  Flowers       ....  72 

XIII  Sunset  on  a  Summit  of  the  Rockies     ...  78 

XIV  Yellowstone  Traditions  and  Discoveries    .        .  81 
XV  Glories  of  the  Golden  Anniversary  Year    .        .  88 

XVI  Theodore  Roosevelt's  Tribute  to  the  Park  .        .  97 

XVII  "Every  Gate  a  Pearl"  of  Nature's  Wonders      .  103 

XVIII  Mother  Earth's  Day  of  Peace  Eternal        .        .  106 


The  gorgeous  prismatic  splendor  of  Yellowstone  Canyon  from  Artist's 

Point  reveals  the  moods  of  the  day  in  varied  pictures. .  .  .    Cover  Lining 

The  "Semi-Centennial"  Geyser  which  first  spouted  on  the  soth  anniver- 
sary of  the  opening  of  Yellowstone  Park      Frontispiece 

The  Oblong  Geyser,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  Firehole  River  from 

Chromatic  Pool   17 

A  Group  of  Pelicans  roosting  in  Yellowstone  Lake,  one  and  one-half  miles 

above  sea  level 17 

The  Terraces  of  the  Gods  are  Hot  Springs 18 

Like  a  m.ortar's  gun,  the  Riverside  Geyser  shoots  its  stream  of  steam 

across  the  river 27 

Mammoth  Hot  Springs  Hotel,  located  on  the  site  of  the  original  hostelry 

of  Yellowstone  Park    28 

There  are  many  hundreds  of  prong-horned  antelopes  in  the  Park 28 

Old  Faithful  Inn,  the  palace  of  logs,  where  thousands  of  tourists  have 

been  welcomed 37 

You  feel  as  if  you  were  within  the  ruins  of  an  ancient  castle  at  Castle 

Well,  a  large  crested  spring  near  Castle  Geyser   37 

The  buffaloes  are  a  reminder  of  the  great  herds  of  bison  that  stampeded 

the  western  plains  in  days  agone   38 

Norris  Basin,  battleground  of  the  Geysers 55 

Jackson  Lake,  Just  outside  the  Park,  is  a  glorious  setting  of  Yellowstone 

wonderland .00 

A  tent  section  in  one  of  the  permanent  summer  camps 73 

A  horseback  party  ready  to  leave  Camp  Roosevelt 73 

Every  variety  of  nature's  wonders  seems  to  be  included  in  Yellowstone .  .  74 

The  music  of  the  twain  of  Yellowstone  Falls    91 

Scenes  in  fairyland  are  awakened  when  the  spectacular  grotto  and  geyser 

are  viewed  in  action 92 

Atop  o'  Mt.  Washburn,  the  one  point  ivhere  the  visitor  feels  that  he  is 

truly  above  of  the  world 101 

There  is  a  magnetic  majesty  about  Electric  Peak,  eleven  thousand  feet 

high 101 

The  nuptials  of  heaven  and  earth  are  vividly  portrayed  at  Hymen  Terrace 

near  Mammoth  Hot  Springs    102 

Christening  the  Sign  at  the  Junction  of  the  Gibbon  and  Firehole  Rivers. .  102 

Map  of  the  Yellowstone  Park  Region Cover  Lining 


FOREWORD 

A  Little  Chat  with  the  Reader 

AT  the  suggestion  of  friends  I  have  dared  much 
^  in  an  effort  to  express  the  feehngs  that  come, 
witnessing  the  dramatic  majesty  of  Nature. 

Emotions  overwhelm  me  as  I  endeavor  to  make  a 
prosaic  pen  speak  of  things  that  words  cannot  ade- 
quately portray;  these  are  the  thrills  that  the  Creator 
intends  we  shall  feel  when  we  witness  the  splendor 
of  His  almighty  works.  And  only  those  who  have 
seen  Yellowstone  realize  the  presence  of  His  revealing 
spirit  there.  Here  the  colors  of  the  spectrum  blend 
in  every  shade  and  hue — rNature's  own  pigments 
which  only  the  hand  of  God  himself  can  palette  into 
such  pictures  eternal. 

Enduring  visions  are  enkindled  in  the  magic  of 
memories  associated  with  the  dream  days  amid  the 
wonders  of  the  Yellowstone.  The  sponsor  of  this 
book  opened  to  me  the  golden  gates  of  memory  to 
childhood  days  and  dreams  of  my  sainted  niother. 

An  old  friend,  I  think  it  was  John  Muir,  once 
urged  me,  during  vacation  days  in  the  painted  desert 
of  Arizona,  to  "go  lay  your  head  in  Nature's  lap  and 
let  her  tell  you  stories." 

Here  are  the  stories  and  visions  of  dream  days — 
all  alone  with  Mother  Nature. 


^^^;^^z^:^lAi/6c%ft/VU^ 


The  Attic 
Boston,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


Bebtcateb 

TO  MY 

WIFE 

KNOWN  AS  "MRS.  JOE' 

THE  PAL  OF 

MANY  HAPPY  YEARS 


A'TOP  O'  THE  WORLD 


On  Reading  Joe  Chappie's  A' top  o'  the  World 


I  have  sat  in  a  room 

Dim  lit  and  tender: 

In  the  magic  of  your  memories, 

The  witchery  of  your  words, 

The  high  soaring  of  your  spirit^ 

I  have  felt 

All  the  winds  of  the  world 

Blowing 

Through  the  silences 

Of  understanding, 

Blowing 

Upon  the  Beauty 

That  is  God's  voice 

Speaking  to  all  Mankind. 

It  is  morning 

Dim  robed 

And  misted, 

Morning  new  born  from  the  matchless 

mystery  of  the  night; 
Hush — and  her  footstep 
Is  a  silence 

Trailing  through  the  spaces 
Into  a  limitless  realm  of  light : 
Morning 
Walking  proudly 
Fearlessly 
And  dream  filled: 
And  lo! 
Before  the  lifted  loveliness  of  her 

face 
The  stars  pale 
And  the  sun 
In  regal  robes  of  glory 
Rises 

To  lay  this  tribute  of  light 
At  her  feet. 

It  is  noon : 

Day  at  its  height 

And  the  mind  of  Man 

Reaching  to  the  height 

Within  himself, 

Looking 

To  the  burning 

And  the  blessing 

And  the  beauty 

That  is  Life! 

Here  in  the  full  flush  of  the  noon 

There  is  a  strength, 

An  aspiration 

Boston,  September  25th,  1922. 


A  knowledge 

Of  all  Created. 

Man  stands  fearless  before  himself 

Under  the  glow  of  the  sun 

That  smile 

Of  God's  presence  upon  him. 

Life  at  the  noontide 

Is  a  work — 

And  work 

A  worship — 

And  worship 

A  knowledge  of  the  purpose  and  the 

power 
Of  the  spirit. 

It  is  dusk 

And  in  the  stillness 

The  soft  moving  of  dreams. 

The  sweet  magic  of  memories. 

The  wide  wonder  of  the  silences. 

There  is  the  strength  of  the  Forever 

In  all  that  is  limitless. 

The  stars 

Hold  on  high  their  lamps 

Of  Hope  lighted: 

The  mystery  of  Time 

Hovers  in  the  hush 

And  enfolds  that  loneliness 

Of  the  spirit, 

Lifting  it 

To  a  realization  of  the  Unseen, 

Pointing  it 

To  a  vision  of  all  worlds 

United! 

There  is  a  blending 

And  a  being 

Of  God 

Born  ever  anew  within  us. 

So  it  is  this  day 

In  the  stars  singing, 

The  noon  throbbing. 

The  dusk 

Pouring  out  the  passion  and  the  power 

of  Life, 
I  dare 

To  reach  upward 
And  there 
To  touch 
The  finger  tips  of  the  Eternal. 

THEODOCIA  PEARCE. 


A'TOP   O'   THE  WORLD 

USHING  onward  over  the  prairies 
of  Dakota  and  out  of  the  darkness 
of  the  '*Bad  Lands,"  we  are  thrilled 
at  the  dim  sight  of  Montana's  rising 
peaks.  All  these  are  wearing  their 
eiderdown  nightcaps  of  snow  that 
seem  to  have  been  tied  under  their 
chins  by  some  fairy  godmother  of  long  ago  who  had 
forgotten  to  awaken  them  when  morning  came.  It  is 
an  unexpected  feast  to  the  eye  of  the  traveler;  each 
mile  across  the  desert  wildness  promises  more  and 
more  of  the  bewitching  loveliness  of  the  mountains 
as  we  glide  up  and  around  the  Yellowstone  Valley. 

Amid  the  green  of  the  winding  glades  we  behold 
the  rugged  architecture  of  the  rangers'  cabins ;  to  the 
left  are  the  grazing  horses,  each  handsome  creature 
marked  with  the  brand  of  its  owner.  They  lift 
their  heads  as  our  big,  black  engine  puffs  its  way 
around  the  sweeping  curves  of  the  mountains,  and 
with  a  snort  and  a  kick,  away  they  gallop  to  a  far- 
off  hillock,  then  turn  and  gaze  upon  the  curious 
creatures,  hiunan  beings  and  iron  horses,  who  dare  to 
invade  their  domain! 


10  A'top  o'  the  World 

Swiftly  the  picture  changes  as  the  train  hastens 
onward,  and  ere  we  are  aware  of  it,  the  conductor  is 
calHng  out  a  cheery  "Gardiner  Gateway!  Welcome 
to  Yellowstone!" 

There  is  a  rush  of  eagerness  when  the  pilgrims 
find  themselves  before  a  railway  station,  constructed 
of  great  logs  still  wearing  their  rough  coats  of  pri- 
meval bark,  with  a  winding  train  shed  canopied  with 
monarchs  of  forest  land. 

How  the  scenes  change  from  hour  to  hour!  Here 
it  is  early  morning.  There  is  a  peculiar  weirdness 
about  it  all,  and  the  magnificent  silence  is  broken 
only  by  the  "I-can-start-it,"  "I-can-do-it"  snorting 
of  the  iron  horse,  impatient  to  carry  another  load  of 
human  freight  back  to  the  foot  of  the  mountains. 

The  yellow  chariot-auto  of  the  Yellowstone^  Park 
Company  is  ready  for  the  jolly  tourists  who  hail 
from  every  corner  of  the  globe,  and  yet  who  are  all 
imbued  with  the  happy-go-lucky,  get-there-quick 
American  spirit.  Among  them  we  find  a  Chinese 
doctor,  an  African  missionary,  a  Spanish  opera  star, 
several  titled  Englishmen,  merry  school  teachers 
bound  for  a  joyous  holiday  away  from  the  crowded 
schoolrooms;  lawyers  who  seek  diversion  from  the 
humdrums  of  the  courts — all  making  up  a  happy  band 
of  pilgrims,  bound  for  the  wonderland  of  the  Yellow- 
stone. Yes,  and  here  is  the  ''old  man  with  the 
smoked  glasses,"  whose  real  name  we  shall  never 
know;    surely  he  is  the  original   over  whom   the 


A' top  0    the  World  11 

cartoonists  rave  and  fill  our  daily  pages.  He,  in- 
deed, is  the  real  personification  of  the  funny  Monsieur 
Perichon. 

The  chauffeur-guide  watches  well  his  gears,  at  the 
same  time  answering  a  volley  of  questions  that  pour 
from  the  seats,  fore  and  aft,  and  laughing  heartily 
at  the  exclamations  of  wonderment.  Winding  up 
the  mountain  road,  one  of  our  ears  is  busy  listening 
to  the  rushing  of  the  waters  in  the  valley  below, 
while  the  other  catches  the  quips  of  the  driver.  We 
have  now  reached  the  point  in  our  journey  where 
every  moment  is  precious. 

We  are  a'top  o'  the  world. 


II 

In  The  Light  of  the  Morning  Stars 

'HE  black  night  has  faded.  We  are 
revelHng  in  the  glory  of  the  morn- 
ing stars.  The  canopy  of  heaven  is 
thickly  studded  with  constellations 
more  brilliant  than  could  be  portrayed 
on  canvas.  The  millions  of  planets 
in  the  firmament  shine  out  like  great 
searchlights.  On  either  side  of  the  road  are  the 
fields  of  green  alfalfa,  laden  with  the  fragrance  of 
the  morning,  bejeweled  with  glistening  dewdrops. 
Here  the  elk  and  the  bison  roam  unmolested  in  the 
bleak  winter  days — but  now  it  is  June. 

We  have  arrived  at  the  arched  portal  of  the  play- 
ground of  the  people.  There  stands  the  sentinel. 
He  who  enters  here  must  be  disarmed.  And  this 
is  truly  a  disarmament,  for  in  this  great  empire  of 
peace,  both  man  and  beast  alike  are  immune  from 
the  ravages  of  powder  and  bullet.  Here  is  the  gate- 
way dedicated  by  Roosevelt  'Tor  the  Benefit  and 
Enjoyment  of  the  People" — the  way  to  a  most  won- 
derful vacation.  Other  travelers  at  this  moment  are 
also  entering  Yellowstone  from  the  gateways  at 
West  Yellowstone,  Cody  and  Lander. 

12 


AHop  o'  the  World  13 

In  the  caravans  of  autos  awaiting  their  turn  at 
the  gates  are  the  "sage-brushers,"  farmers  and  city 
folk  who  have  traveled  far,  representing  practically 
every  state  in  the  Union,  coming  to  enjoy  the  camp- 
ing grounds  of  Uncle  Sam.  How  surprised  is  the 
little  daughter  of  the  African  missionary!  She  tells 
us  she  expected  to  find  nothing  but  cowboys  here. 

Everybody  feels  at  home.  Even  the  dog  has 
curled  himself  up  on  the  fender  of  the  car.  The 
autos  are  equipment-laden  from  radiator  to  tail  light ; 
every  inch  of  space  counts.  There  is  a  large  family 
within — father,  mother,  children — even  the  year-old, 
for  even  babes  visit  this  dreamland.  All  are  astir 
at  this  early  hour,  under  the  light  of  the  morning 
stars,  eager  to  pass  across  the  boundary  of  the 
Park. 

Off  through  the  winding  vales  of  Gardiner  Canyon 
is  the  Gardiner  River,  rippling  forth  its  matins  before 
it  is  disturbed  by  the  birds  at  the  dawn.  Therein 
flow  the  surging,  bubbling  waters  of  the  boiling  river, 
whose  temperatures  change  from  "hot  to  cold," 
without  labeled  faucets. 

The  caravans  are  now  on  their  way  to  the  hotels 
and  the  camps,  but  the  sage-brushers  push  onUo 
select  one  of  the  many,  many  favorite  spots  on  which 
to  pitch  tent  or  automobile.  Then  ho  for  the 
spirit  of  nomadic  life! 

In  the  camps  are  the  young  folk,  already  up  before 
the  dawn,  cheerily  singing  and  drinking  in  the  glories 


14  A*top  o'  the  World 

of  the  morning.  There  is  a  merry  clink  of  water 
pitchers  under  the  tap,  and  high  upon  an  overhanging 
rock,  Hke  the  Lorelei  of  the  song,  sits  a  maiden, 
combing  her  hair.  Truly  she  is  the  spirit  of  early 
morning. 

At  Mammoth  Springs,  the  capital  of  the  Park, 
are  the  old  barracks  of  the  army  post.  Aglow  with 
the  light  of  the  morning  stars  are  the  old  red  roofs 
and  the  dim,  gray  stone  walls,  stern  reminders  of 
the  struggles  of  many  an  Indian  battle  in  the  early 
days.  The  old  parade  ground  is  now  a  peaceful 
lawn.  Here,  too,  is  the  old  stage  coach  that  in 
its  lifetime  has  witnessed  many  a  thrilling  adven- 
ture; its  sides  still  show  the  scars  from  the  bullets 
of  the  '*hold-up  man"  and  hostile  Indian.  This  is 
the  same  old  Deadwood  coach  in  which  proudly 
rode  many  a  potentate  of  the  old  frontier  days. 
Its  doors  still  swing  on  leather  hinges;  its  red  paint 
is  blistered  with  the  sun;  the  snows,  the  rains  and 
the  frosts  of  many  long  years  have  left  their  marks 
upon  it.  And  yet,  the  old  veteran  seems  to  bob  a 
welcome  to  us,  even  now  amid  the  fumes  of  gasoline, 
mingled  with  the  sulphuric  vapors  of  the  hot  springs 
of  Yellowstone.  All  these  scenes  are  fascinating  in 
the  starlight  afterglow.  Comes  now  the  surge  of 
an  indescribable  something  that  pierces  our  veins 
with  the  premonition  that  we  are  entering  a  foreign 
land;  we  have  left  the  world  behind.  We  have 
arrived  in  God's  own  country. 


A'top  o'  the  World  15 

The  scene  shifts  from  the  early  morning  ride  to 
the  breakfast  table.  Wholesome  food  is  here  to 
stimulate  the  ever-increasing  flow  of  fellowship,  and 
it  is  here  at  the  table  that  we  begin  to  find  that 
there  are  new  words  being  created  which  were  never 
known  to  our  friend  Noah  Webster  of  dictionary 
fame.  The  chauffeur-guides  are  our  "gear- jammers" ; 
all  camp  employes  are  "savages";  a  tourist  (male  or 
female)  is  a  "dude";  a  machinist  is  a  "grease- 
jammer,"  and  the  hotel  employes  are  "heavers." 

Practically  all  employes  at  camps  and  hotels  are 
college  girls  and  boys;  here  you  will  find  that  both 
work  and  play  are  the  order  of  the  day.  The  "sav- 
age" who  has  been  known  to  go  for  a  walk  in  Lover's 
Lane  with  a  "dude"  is  classed  a  "rotten-logger," 
which  means  that  the  twain  must  have  occupied  a 
seat  on  the  selfsame  log  away  from  the  jolly  crowd 
that  gathers  nightly  around  the  camp  fires  to  sing 
and  entertain  one  another. 

I  slip  away  from  the  clatter  of  dishes  to  look  once 
more  upon  the  fading  stars — as  if  to  say  grace  for 
the  morning  meal.  A  little  group  has  preceded  me. 
We  stand  in  silence,  with  the  anticipation  of  happy 
days — the  time  when  the  morning  stars  sang  together 
and  all  of  the  suns  of  God  shouted  for  joy. 


Ill 
Sunrise  at  the  Terraces  of  the  Gods 

WITH  the  reverence  of  the  Sun-wor- 
shippers come  the  sleepy -eyed  early- 
risers — slaves  to  scenic  moods — out 
across  the  old  parade  grounds  of 
Fort  Yellowstone,  at  Mammoth. 
They  are  scheduled  to  witness  the 
sunrise  at  the  Terraces  of  the  Gods 
in  almanac  time.  The  full  tide  of  color  curves  the 
rim  of  the  mountains  and  distinguishes  the  horizon 
from  the  pink  of  the  early  morning  skies,  and  the 
rays  of  the  golden  light  are  reflected  upon  Hymen's 
Altar,  behind  which  stands  the  grim  Pulpit  Rock. 
It  is  all  so  serene  and  expectant,  as  if  in  full  readiness 
for  a  solemn  nuptial  service. 

The  waters  trickle  over  the  Terraces  in  whispered 
silence,  as  if  stealthily  creeping  over  the  plush-cov- 
ered Stairway  of  the  Gods,  and  fearful  of  disturbing 
the  matins  of  the  birds.  On  the  crest  the  rainbow- 
tinted  pools  of  boiling  water  suggest  a  preparation 
of  morning  coffee,  but  the  sulphuric  waters  have 
laid  low  the  living  shrub  and  tree  that  stood  in  their 
pathways. 

Jets  of  steam  breathe  from  the  summit  of  the 

16 


Photo  by  J.  E.  Hayncs 

The  Oblong  Ceyser  is  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  Firehole .River  from  Chromatic 
Pool.    It  is  counted  one  of  the  finest  examples  of  interior  geyser  in  the  park.    Large 
masses  of  tan-colored  geyser ite  form  the  rim,  and  the  water  is  of  a  delicate  blue. 
Preceding  eruptions  the  crater  fills  and  boils  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour 


CopNTight  by  Gifford 

This  is  not  in  Florida,  the  Pelican  State,  but  /uuco  ocull  Uil   .^cu  icitt   ui   \  cUouotone.    The 

pelicans  chatter  and  hold  high  carnival  as  they  converse  on  climate.      They  know  how  to  get 

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AHop  o*  the  World  19 

Terraces,  exuding  the  healthful  and  antiseptic  odor 
of  sulphur.  Under  our  very  feet  as  we  climb  up- 
ward the  waters  bubble  gently  down,  building  for- 
mations as  they  fall,  and  leaving  their  rocky  beds 
to  glisten  with  a  brilliant,  solid  yellow.  Perhaps 
this  is  what  gave  rise  to  the  Indian  title  of  "Yellow- 
stone," which  they  called  this  section  of  the  country. 
The  little  algae  plants  are  already  at  work  in  their 
alchemic  miracles  of  form  and  color. 

Somewhere  in  the  distance  there  is  a  roar.  Hear! 
It  is  the  voice  of  a  deep-throated  geyser  pouncing 
upon  the  victim  of  his  conquest.  Now  we  are 
standing  at  the  very  spot  where  the  heated  breath  is 
blown  through  the  mighty  portals  of  a  cavern  in  the 
rocks.  This  is  the  Devil's  Kitchen — and  yet  no 
breakfast  is  in  sight.  But  ah,  what  a  feast  for  the 
eye  is  set  before  us! 

There  in  the  glory  of  the  sunrise  stand  Jupiter  and 
Minerva  arrayed  in  the  full-orbed  splendor  of  rain- 
bow hues,  petrified  miniatures  of  Niagara.  The 
dripping  of  the  water  is  the  sweat  that  is  oozing  from 
the  brow  of  the  Terraces,  tugging  away  in  this  magic 
laboratory  of  the  gods. 

All  aglow  in  the  purity  of  whiteness  glistens  the 
beautiful  Angel  Terrace  nearby,  forming  yet  another 
contrast  to  the  picture.  Its  robes  are  studded  with 
dead  trees,  and  by  half-closing  the  eyes,  we  may 
fancy  that  we  are  gazing  through  a  frosted  window 
upon  a  winter  scene  of  New  England,  where  bare 


20  AHop  o'  the  World 

trunks,  twigs,  and  branches,  decorated  with  icicles, 
are  battUng  with  Boreas. 

The  gorgeous  coloring  and  form  of  thermal  springs 
in  all  of  their  unrivalled  magic  are  here  aglow  with 
the  splendor  of  the  sunrise.  The  tracery  of  exquisite 
beauty  in  unity  and  color  and  hue  include  every 
pattern  in  Nature's  weaving. 

Amid  the  wonder  of  this  golden  stairway  stands 
Minerva,  a  goddess  supreme,  clad  in  the  purity  of 
vapor,  sparkling  in  the  amber  of  the  gathering  sun- 
rise, and  partaking  of  the  blue  of  the  summer  skies 
and  the  jade  of  the  foliage  in  her  royal  mantle. 

The  sun  lends  his  assistance  in  spreading  Min- 
erva's robes  over  the  mountainside,  so  that  the 
marvel  children  of  the  terrace  may  continue  their 
play  by  day,  oblivious  of  the  turbulence  that  comes 
with  new-born  spring,  eager  to  join  in  their  song  of 
creation.  Even  the  suffused  rays  of  the  sunrise 
fail  to  reach  as  far  as  the  Canyon  side,  although 
there  is  no  conflict  of  light  and  shadow.  These  are 
harmoniously  blended  into  the  tapestries  of  the  cur- 
tain of  approaching  day. 

The  flute-voiced  plover  sends  forth  his  call  of  the 
morning.  His  mate  replies.  Another  joins  in  the 
birds'  Gloria  Patria,  then  another,  and  soon  the 
whole  adjacent  primeval  forest  is  echoing  and  re- 
echoing with  the  morning  anthem. 

The  natural  impulse  of  the  "untourified"  is  to 
experiment,  just  for  the  sake  of  finding  out  if  the 


AHop  o'  the  World  21 

water  is  really  as  hot  as  it  seems.  A  finger  or  hand 
is  immersed  for  a  test — and  it  is  quickly  withdrawn. 
With  its  combination  of  mysterious  chemicals,  the 
water  has  come  to  a  white  heat  and  burns  as  no 
other  hot  water  burns.  The  breath  of  Satan  scalds 
and  blights  to  kill. 

Adown  the  road  with  cheery  halloo,  in  our  royal 
coach,  a  yellow  bus,  and  we  are  off  to  Silver  Gate, 
which  stands  a  sentinel  before  the  first  real  gleam  of 
sunrise.  Amid  the  rocky  battlements  we  fancy  that 
we  can  hear  the  retreating  of  the  soft-footed,  swift- 
winged  fairies  on  the  soft,  cool  vapors  of  the  morning 
zephyrs.  The  heart  pulses  faster  as  the  morning 
unfolds  and  the  sun  begins  his  play  on  the  rocky 
crags  above. 

"Yo,  ho!     Yo,  ho!" 

Here  beside  the  trail  is  an  Indian — a  traditional 
Sun-worshipper — ^holding  aloft  for  our  inspection 
one  of  the  silvery  fish,  a  mountain  trout,  which  he 
has  caught  in  the  stream  nearby.  The  smoke  of 
the  campfire  comes  to  our  nostrils,  like  the  incense  to 
the  spirit  of  the  woodlands.  A  hearty  grunt  pro- 
claims the  advent  of  a  mother  bear  and  her  cubs  in 
search  of  their  share  of  the  Indian's  breakfast. 
What  romance  is  astir  in  these  hills!  Animal  and 
man  are  met  in  peace  conference  without  pact  or 
seal. 

Riding  along  the  rocky  ledge,  we  behold  the  far- 
famed    Hoodoo    Rocks,    lying   together   in   massed 


22  AHop  0    the  World 

confusion,  rectangular  in  form — a  wrecked  moun- 
tain where  giants  gamboled.  Perhaps  these  were 
Lucifer's  blocks  which  he  dashed  for  a  fall  into  the 
depths  of  Hoodoo  Land  when  he  grew  tired  of 
playing  with  them  one  day.  There  they  lie,  all 
topsy-turvy,  just  as  he  hurled  them  aside.  Like  the 
black  rocks  of  Camaralzaman  in  "Arabian  Nights," 
they  seem  to  spring  to  life  at  the  flush  of  sunrise. 

Let  us  pause  in  silence  as  the  sky  changes  its 
draperies  from  lavender  to  pink,  and  from  pink  to 
red.  And  now  a  radiance  reflects  in  the  streams 
below  as  the  ribbons  of  the  rainbow  colors  stretch 
far  beyond.  The  red  line  of  the  horizon  grows 
heavier;  now  deeper;  and  even  as  we  watch  him, 
Old  Sol  shakes  off  his  nightcap  and  arises  in  all  his 
pomp.  Here  is  glory  indescribable  as,  a  little  way 
behind  Hoodoo  Land  we  approach  the  other  sentinel 
known  as  the  Golden  Gate. 

The  elk  at  the  crag  outposts  haughtily  challenges 
us  for  a  countersign.  This  is  the  gate  of  gold  named 
for  its  graceful  form  and  for  its  power  of  reflecting 
the  glories  of  the  sun. 

In  the  roadside  camp  of  the  sage-brusher  is  heard 
the  laughter  of  happy  children,  together  with  the 
merry  twitter  of  the  song  birds.  Here  is  the  forest; 
here  are  the  fragrance  of  wildflowers,  the  sweetness 
of  waters  of  everlasting  fountains,  the  warmth  of  the 
summer  sunshine  and  the  coolness  of  winter  snows, 
the  silvery  glistening  of  raindrops,  the  virgin  purity 


AHop  0    the  World  23 

of  snowflakes  even  in  summer  days,  the  song  of  a 
soul  praising  its  maker.  We  are  overwhelmed  with 
the  voice  of  all  of  these  things  as  they  join  in  an 
unending  hymn. 

Drifts  of  snow  bordering  the  summerland  furnish 
no  end  of  delight.  The  pilgrims  stop  to  click  their 
cameras  at  every  drift.  Nor  can  their  elders  resist 
the  childhood  pleasures  of  a  jolly  good  snowballing. 
Yes,  we  grow  younger.  Time  slips  away,  and  we 
join  the  hearty  laughter  when  a  misdirected  snowball 
finds  its  way  to  the  nose  of  one  good  lady,  dislodging 
her  spectacles  and  falling  in  a  fluffy  mass  on  her 
taffeta  gown.  She  is  in  good  humor,  and  making 
hurried  grasps  at  the  snow  that  has  fallen  in  her  lap, 
she  presses  it  into  another  sphere  and  proceeds  to 
aim  with  a  saluting  arm.  What  matter  if  this  mis- 
sile goes  toward  the  pine  tree,  two  yards  to  my  left.'^ 
The  children  rush  in  that  direction  to  make  sure 
that  mother's  snowball  found  a  sure  target. 

How  everybody  laughs  as  the  driver  starts  the  car 
with  one  hand  on  the  gear-shift  lever,  and  with  the 
other  endeavors  to  dislodge  a  snowball  from  the  back 
of  his  collar!  One  tourist,  asleep  on  the  back  seat, 
who  refused  to  get  out  when  the  others  tried  to  per- 
suade him,  is  awakened  with  a  start  as  a  snowball 
splices  his  ear. 

**This  is  a  hell  of  a  place!'*  he  gruffly  exclaims. 
His  listeners  are  charitable,  for  he  missed  his  coffee 
this  morning. 


24  AHop  o   the  World 

"There  are  no  snowballs  in  that  region,"  declares 
the  little  school  teacher,  snuggling  beside  him. 

He  catches  the  reflection  of  the  sunrise  in  her 
smile.  It  is  all  over.  The  full-orbed,  steady  beam 
of  the  risen  sun  has  mellowed  the  landscape.  This 
fellowship  of  the  sun-worshippers  from  all  over  the 
world  will  never  forget  the  overture  of  a  perfect  day 
— Sunrise  at  the  Terraces  of  the  Gods. 


Forenoon  fantasies  as  Day  Gathers  Color 

ITH  the  longing  that  each  hour  of 
the  day  may  be  lengthened,  forenoon 
fantasies  foregather  as  the  moments 
fly.  Daylight  visions  dispel  the  emo- 
tions that  are  prone  to  attend  the 
dreams  of  the  twilight  hour.  Fan- 
tasy here  is  not  altogether  a  mental 
delusion;  it  steals  upon  us  with  a  whimsical,  gro- 
tesque impulse  of  imagery.  This  new  and  strange 
mood  of  mental  ebb  and  flow  creates  pictures  be- 
yond those  falling  within  the  horizon  of  physical 
view.  The  precious  moments  of  time  glide  by,  un- 
measured by  ticking  clock  or  swinging  pendulum. 
Slow  eternity  is  here  annealing  the  manacles  of  form. 
The  day  grows  on  apace,  but  we  recognize  the  change 
of  time  only  through  the  dial  of  lights  and  shadows, 
where  "dim  alchemic  powers  rebuild  to  law's  immuta- 
ble demands." 

As  the  day  gathers  color  and  strength,  the  fore- 
noon fantasies  flit  from  the  camps.  All  astir  with 
the  call  of  the  wild,  the  caravan  of  motors  moves  on 
like  Gypsy  vans.  On  the  bank  of  a  nearby  stream 
sits  a  "Compleat  Angler,"  absorbed  in  the  spirit  of 

25 


26  A'top  o'  the  World 

Izaak  Walton.  That  children  are  playing  in  the  re- 
cent haunts  of  wild  animals  reveals  the  kinship  that 
exists  between  the  nature  of  the  wild  creatures  and 
that  of  humans. 

The  hours  that  herald  the  approach  of  noontide 
find  us  on  the  drive  to  the  geyser  basins,  past  lovely 
Swan  Lake,  to  Apollinaris  Springs,  where  we  stop 
— doubting — to  taste  the  clear  waters  and  go  on — 
convinced — now  ready  to  believe  almost  anything 
about  Yellowstone  Park  Here  is  Obsidian  Cliff, 
where  the  Indians  gathered  their  arrow  heads — 
Roaring  Mountain  nearby  and  the  unspeakable  charm 
of  Twin  Lakes,  one  blue,  the  other  green. 

Norris  Geyser  Basin,  7,470  feet  above  the  sea, 
presents  an  amazing  continuance  of  wonders  left 
behind  at  Mammoth.  Here  the  Black  Growler 
hisses  deep  in  the  earth;  Constant  Geyser,  Whirligig 
Geyser  and  Valentine  Geyser  show  us  a  promise 
of  larger  ones  ahead.  The  Bathtub,  on  our  left, 
boils  violently,  in  rage  perhaps,  for  none  of  our  party 
accepts  its  invitation.  A  path  leads  on  to  Emerald 
Pool,  more  beautiful  even  than  its  name,  and  to  the 
new  "paint  pots"  of  pink  and  blue  mud,  which  heave 
about  like  boiling  porridge. 

The  Spirit  of  the  Revolution  keeps  aflame  nearby 
in  the  Minute  Man  Geyser,  whose  energy  never 
tires,  whose  waters  burst  from  the  ground  each  time 
your  watch-hand  moves. 

Arrayed  in  one  of  the  varied  uniforms  to  be  seen 


Copyright  by  J.  E.  Haynes 

Like  a  mortar's  gun,  the  Riverside  Geyser  shoots  its  stream  of  steam  across  the 
river.  It  is  located  on  the  east  bank  of  the  Firehole  River,  a  few  feet  above  the 
new  steel  bridge,  where  it  is  observed  erupting  every  six  or  seven  hours.  It  keeps 
up  a  continuous  fire  for  a  period  of  several  minutes.     Its  volley  of  steam  extends 

over  one  hundred  feet 


27 


'^    ?   "    "  „||i,j 'f'JLMiSL  "  "    '  "«"■«!  «    mi 

1lTlff=^»i1i 


Mammoth  Hot  Sjji  .n^^  I  loi^L,  located  on  the  site  of  the  original  hostelry  of  Yellowstone 

Park,  near   Fort  Yellowstone.     Here  are  located  the  Mammoth  Hot  Springs  and  the 

Terraces   of  the    Gods    at    the   Gardiner   entrance  of   Yellowstone    Park.     Across    its 

threshold  have  f:)assed  many  famous  men 


Photo  by  J.  E.  Haynes 

Prong  horned  antelopes  are  the  most  shy  and  beautiful  creatures  among  the  half-wild, 

half-tame  denizens  of  Yellowstone  Park.      The  Park  is  a  natural  game  preserve  and 

in  recent  years  the  annual  winter  slaughter  of  its  inhabitants  by  lawless  hunters  has 

been  put  an  end  to  by  the  ceaseless  vigilance  of  the  rangers 


28 


AHop  o    the  World  29 

in  the  gayety  of  the  park,  there  stands  on  a  rock  a 
young  girl,  whose  hair  seems  to  catch  the  gUnt  of  the 
sun.  She  stumbles,  and,  as  always  happens  in  nov- 
els, there  is  a  young  man  to  catch  her.  However, 
auburn,  or  red,  hair,  is  so  rare  in  these  times,  that 
everybody  notices  her.  Consequently,  each  has  his 
little  joke  about  the  titian-haired  lass.  When  she 
falls  into  the  strong  arms  of  this  sturdy  young 
ranger,  who  chances  to  be  one  of  the  party,  it  does 
not  take  keen  observation  to  learn  that  a  tiny  spark 
of  love-light  has  been  set  aglow. 

In  some  way  they  manage  to  keep  close  together 
for  all  the  rest  of  the  trip,  oblivious  of  onlookers. 
What  they  manage  to  talk  about,  no  one  knows. 
They  gaze  at  each  other,  look  away  into  the  dis- 
tance, gaze  again  at  each  other  and  smile — and 
everybody  else  smiles,  too.  The  women-folk  of  the 
party,  match -makers,  look  at  each  other  signifi- 
cantly and  nod  their  heads.  The  setting  in  which 
this  budding  love  scene  seems  to  kindle  is  perfect. 
The  back  seat  of  our  car  suits  well  their  purpose. 
Everybody  watches  and  awaits  the  progress,  for  the 
process  of  love-making  on  the  mountain  mingles 
well  with  the  other  scenes  of  wonderment.  There 
was  a  Byronic  climax:  "Soft  eyes  looked  love  to 
eyes  which  spake  again." 

Forenoon  fantasies  fade  in  the  presence  of  a  lunch 
basket.  The  mounting  jocund  sun  plays  about  the 
scintillating    luncheon    garb    suddenly    donned    by 


30  AHop  o'  the  World 

Dame  Earth,  in  a  marvellously  "quick  change"  from 
the  flowered  morning  gown.  The  serene  scenes  un- 
fold gently  while  the  very  air  attends,  and  holds  its 
breath  from  the  leaves  as  we  descend  into  the 
hut  built  of  huge  timbers  while  dreams  fade  into 
realities. 


Entrancing  Twilight  in  the  valleys 

Wl  LIGHT  in  the  valleys  evokes 
soothing  and  entrancing  sentiment. 
The  valleys  are  interlaced  with  can- 
yons, extending  through  the  vast 
stretches  of  country.  On  either  side 
are  the  pasturages  which  form  graz- 
ing grounds,  where  deer,  buffalo, 
antelope,  and  elk  roam  at  will. 

As  we  approach  Gibbon  Canyon  and  glide  over 
the  great,  grassy  tract  of  Gibbon  Meadows,  we  the 
tourist  band  just  lean  back  in  our  seats  while  the 
shadows  of  dreams  begins. 

The  sable  sheets  of  night  are  touched  with  mystic 
light.  Our  heads  are  filled  with  vivid  imaginings, 
and  our  hearts  are  replete  with  love  for  every  plant 
and  flower  and  wild  creature  that  inhabits  the  place. 
Yea,  and  our  very  souls  are  feasting. 

We  cross  the  Gibbon  River,  then  the  Firehole. 
The  mountain  to  the  right  is  National  Park  Moun- 
tain, at  whose  base  the  Washburn-Doane  exploring 
party,  before  their  campfire  in  1870,  laid  plans  for 
the  establishment  of  Yellowstone  National  Park. 
Leading  out  of  the  Gibbon  and  Firehole,  joined  here 

31 


32  AHop  'o  the  World 

to  form  the  Madison  River,  are  the  gorges,  splashed 
with  cascades  and  rapids.  We  are  told  by  our 
**gear- jammer*'  that  the  Madison  flows  on  into  Mon- 
tana, where,  close  to  the  Northern  Pacific  Railway 
in  the  Gallatin  Valley,  it  flows  down  with  the 
JeflFerson  and  Gallatin  rivers  to  make  the  great 
Missouri. 

Among  the  old  roads  and  trails  of  historic  interest 
is  the  route  of  Chief  Joseph  of  the  Nez  Perce  Indi- 
ans, who  made  his  last  stand  for  the  Redmen  north 
of  here  in  1877.  The  waters  of  Nez  Perce  Creek 
chant  a  requiem,  remindful  of  the  days  of  the  last 
council  of  war  and  the  attack  of  the  savages  which 
was  a  closing  tragic  chapter  of  Indian  warfare  in 
the  nation's  great  playground. 

Soon  we  are  gazing  with  wonder  at  Mammoth 
Paint  Pots,  sputtering  caldrons  of  fascinating  mud. 
"A  perfect  heaven  for  mud-pie  makers,"  sighed  the 
little  school  teacher,  who  was  growing  younger 
every  mile. 

A  side  path  lures  us  through  pines  to  the  Fountain 
Geyser,  which  happened  to  be  taking  a  nap  at  the 
moment  of  our  visit.  Close  at  hand  Clepsydra, 
Bellefontaine,  Jelly  and  Jet  Geysers — small  to  be 
sure,  but  busy — were  doing  their  level  best  to  enter- 
tain. 

On  a  branch  road,  the  Black  Warrior  or  Steady 
Geyser  points  the  way  to  Firehole  Lake,  which  at 
times  has  a  muddy  tinge,  and  flickers  back  and  forth 


A'top  'o  the  World  3S 

like  a  torch.  In  the  twihght  the  illusion  is  perfect, 
and  the  hidden  fires  produce  a  sensation  of  weirdness 
firing  our  imaginations  with  the  things  that  may  be 
going  on  under  the  earth  beneath  our  feet. 

Firehole  Pool,  hot  as  steam,  gives  the  same  illu- 
sion. We  see  in  its  waters  a  flame  of  fire.  But 
other  wonders  claim  notice — the  Great  Fountain 
Geyser,  hurling  a  mountain  of  water  aloft,  the  Five 
Sisters,  Bath  Lake,  Buffalo  Springs,  Twin  Buttes, 
Broken  Egg  Spring. 

We  must  hurry  on  to  Midway  Geyser  Basin  with 
its  beautiful  Excelsior  Geyser,  once  the  largest  in  the 
park.  Adjectives  fail  here.  The  rainbow  tints  and 
colors  of  Prismatic  Lake  and  Turquoise  Spring,  huge 
ponds  of  clear  boiling  water,  must  be  seen.  Their 
beauties  cannot  be  described. 

In  Biscuit  Basin,  Sapphire  Pool,  Jewel,  Silver 
Globe  and  Artemisia  geysers  are  found.  Mystic 
Falls  sing  on  the  river  to  the  west. 

Shadowing  the  basins  are  the  mountains  and 
forests,  with  cool  streams  and  gulches,  inviting  grass 
plots  amid  trees  beckoning  to  wearied  minds  and 
fagged  souls. 

Those  who  have  lived  for  many  years  amid  the 
beauty  of  Yellowstone  never  tire  of  it;  they  find 
more  of  interest  in  these  restful  nooks  than  in  the 
valleys;  each  day's  journeys  grow  more  and  more 
fascinating,  for  there  is  always  something  new.  The 
valley  seems  to  be  a  part  of  the  vast  arm  of  the 


34  AHop  o'  the  World 

lake  which,  in  bygone  days,  must  have  covered  the 
faces  of  these  mountains. 

The  curtain  of  night  is  closing  in  on  the  Twilight, 
and  the  arc  of  the  great  stage  is  lighted  up  with  an 
afterglow  in  silence  serene.  Suddenly  a  strong  voice 
breaks  out  into  song  that  echoes  up  and  down  the 
valleys.  Others  join  in,  and  a  chorus  of  young  folks 
sets  our  hearts  ringing,  particularly  when  the  old 
songs  of  yesterday  come  to  our  ears. 

There  is  a  tender  expression  in  the  eyes  of  the 
golden-haired  lass  and  the  sombrero  boy,  when  the 
leader  begins  "Love's  Old  Sweet  Song."  These  are 
good  singers  in  the  yellow  bus.  Never  was  this  old 
melody  rendered  in  such  a  setting  and  with  such 
effect.  We  cannot  help  but  observe  the  two  in  the 
back  seat  of  the  car — one  the  golden-haired  girl,  the 
other  the  sombrero  boy.  His  strong  right  arm  is 
not  lying  in  his  lap,  and  we  can  feel  that  there  is 
something  said  in  those  bright  blue  eyes,  beneath 
the  wavy  golden  locks — love  is  working  fast.  And 
although  it  is  not  exactly  chilly,  it  is  but  natural 
that  the  twain  snuggle  closer  together  under  the 
robe. 

As  the  old  poet  said,  "Twilight  is  the  wooing 
hour."  In  the  dim  and  imperfect  lights,  the  high- 
lights of  the  face  and  the  expression  are  softened. 
Ragnarok,  the  Indian  poet,  revelled  in  the  twilight 
of  the  gods. 

Here  in  the  diffused  lights,  our  thoughts  seem  to 


AHop  o'  the  World  35 

concentrate  in  keeping  with  the  loveHness  around 
us.  Every  twihght  has  a  way  of  reflecting  the 
spirit  of  the  day,  and  the  evening  dews  sparkle  in 
the  semi-Kght,  defying  the  derivation  of  the  word 
given  to  this  hour  of  the  day,  "twice-hght'*  or  the 
velvet  vision  soft  focus  in  Nature's  camera. 

It  is  at  this  time  that  there  comes  to  us  the  theme 
of  Milton — his  visions  of  Paradise  Lost  and  Para- 
dise Regained.  It  is  now,  in  the  growing  gray,  giv- 
ing to  all  things  a  sombre  livery,  bird  and  beast  to 
their  haunts  retire.  They  instinctively  realize  the 
voice  of  prophecies  from  Holy  writ:  "None  shall 
kill  or  destroy  in  all  my  mountains." 

The  silvered  waters  of  the  Firehole  still  stand 
out,  in  the  deepened  shadow  of  the  trees,  and  along 
the  winding  course  of  the  river,  reveal  the  "half- 
lights"  riding  continuously  with  the  rugged  peaks 
of  the  mountains  on  every  hand. 

Tourists  will  insist  before  they  have  finished  the 
tour,  that  his  Satanic  Majesty  has  pre-empted  a 
large  area  of  the  playground  Empire — for  here  is 
the  Devil's  Elbow.  A  sharp  turn  of  almost  a  hun- 
dred and  eighty  degrees  is  made  around  a  jutting 
point  of  rock.  The  whispering  leaves  sing  as  we 
ride  on  to  the  Wedded  Trees,  where  two  tall  pines 
are  permanently  united  with  a  growing  limb  be- 
tween them.  These  freaks  of  nature  are  often 
noted  as  we  pass  through  the  park  forests,  but  this 
phenomenon  is  too  much  for  the  twain  in  the  back 


36  A'top  0    the  World 

seat.     They  look  at  it,  sigh,  and  then  everybody 

looks  at  them.     It  is  but  a  reminder  of  a  romance 

going  on  in  the  good   old  way,  bringing  to  mind 

Wordsworth's  lines 

**Her  eyes  as  stars  of  twilight  fair, 
Like  twilight,  too,  her  auburn  hair/* 

It  is  quite  like  the  reading  of  a  novel,  where  the 
author  spends  many  hours  describing  the  process  of 
love-making.  Here  we  are,  observing  love's  light 
fancy  full  abloom  in  twilight  under  natural  environ- 
ments, without  the  artificial  processes  that  one  often 
must  endure  in  fiction.  When  we  behold  the  two 
holding  hands  and  looking  more  intently  into  each 
other's  eyes,  the  **old  grouch"  who  occupies  the 
front  seat  with  the  '*gear  jammer"  cracks  his  face 
into  halfja  smile  and  ventures,  "It's  going  fine!" 

The  twilight  ride  in  the  valleys  brings  varied  emo- 
tions. The  bus  stops  at  the  site  of  the  "hold-up" 
in  1897,  where  bandits  stopped  some  of  the  tourists 
of  that  day,  including  a  government  conveyance  in 
which  rode  an  army  oflScer.  The  pockets  of  the 
entire  party  were  emptied  of  valuables.  This  was 
before  the  days  of  the  ranger,  and  it  was  these  in- 
cidents exploited  in  dime  novels  that  led  to  the  vig- 
orous policing  of  the  Park.  Now  the  doors  of  the 
cabins,  tents  and  shacks  are  left  wide  open,  for  now 
the  ranger  soon  knows  "Who's  Who"  within  the 
borderland  of  the  Park. 

We  thrill  to  know  that  this  is  the  very  place 


Photo  by  J.  E.  Haynes 

Old  Faithful  Inn,  the  palace  of  logs,  where  thousands  of  tourists  have  been  welcomed. 

The  giant  clock  over  the  fireplace  ticks  the  hour  when  Old  Faithful  goes  into  action.      On 

the  swing  of  the  pendulum,  every  sixty  seconds  of  the  day  and  night,  Old  Faithful  gives 

hourly  greeting  to  the  guests  at  the  Inn 


i'hoto  by  J.  li,  1  layncs 

You  feel  as  if  you  were  within  the  ruins  of  an  ancient  castle  at  Castle  Well,  a  large 
crested  spring  near  Castle  Geyser,  twenty  feet  in  diameter,  that  overflows  on  two  sides. 
The  geyser  somehow  suggests  an  old  feudal  pile  which  would  seem  to  indicate  that  it  is 
the  father  of  all  the  geysers,  as  it  is  considered  the  oldest  geyser  in  the  Park.  The 
orifice  is  lined  with  a  bright  orange  color,  the  eruptions  are  irregular,  sometimes  violently 
boiling  and  shooting  twice  its  usual  height.  The  boiling  spring  near  here  was  a 
favorite  spot  for  campers  in  earlier  days 
37 


38 


AHop  0    the  World  39 

where  the  robbery  of  the  stage  coaches  took  place, 
and  again  it  brings  to  mind  the  old,  red,  weather- 
beaten  stage  coach  at  Mammoth,  making  it  seem 
even  more  fascinating  as  a  relic  of  the  old  days.  It, 
too,  was  one  of  the  coaches  that  was  "held  up"  in 
those  days  of  adventure  "out  where  the  west  begins." 

For  some  reason,  we  cannot  recall  all  at  once,  the 
scenes  of  certain  routes  and  various  drives,  taken 
separately;  we  think  more  in  terms  of  the  scenes  of 
each  day  as  it  passes,  co-relating  our  thoughts  to 
the  time  of  the  day  in  which  the  picture  was  pre- 
sented— the  real  picture  that  makes  the  wonder 
days  a  part  of  our  very  souls. 

The  clattering  Klaxton  of  the  automobile  an- 
nounces the  arrival  of  the  party  at  the  Inn.  Some 
of  the  old  tourists  have  gathered  on  the  veranda  for 
a  little  talk.  There,  seated  in  a  rustic  seat,  we  also 
observe  the  ranger  and  the  titian-haired  miss,  still 
continuing  that  little  chat  which  they  began  at  sun- 
set. We  arise  considerately  and  say  good  night  in 
the  early  shank  of  the  evening,  for  we  know  that 
there  is  a  something  about  the  sympathetic  twilight 
that  has  entered  the  hearts  of  these  two  happy  souls 
with  a  single  thought.  As  we  look  upon  them  once 
more,  we  bow  before  the  tender  sentiment  that 
blossomed  during  the  entrancing  twilight  ride  through 
the  valleys. 


Midnight  Revels  on  the  Devil's 
Golf  Course 

'IS  the  midnight  hour,  "dim-paneled 
in  the  painted  scene  of  sleep."  The 
night  owl  is  hooting  in  the  sombre 
hours  of  low  twelve,  while  the  moon 
seems  to  leap  from  cloud  to  cloud 
on  its  nightly  course.  Cloud  shad- 
ows play  hide-and-seek  on  the  shin- 
ing sands  of  the  moonlit  geyser  basin.  Among  the 
rocks  of  the  Hoodoo,  jagged  and  grim,  the  goblin 
geysers  hold  high  carnival.  The  mocking  bird, 
singing  to  his  mate  the  long  night  through,  finds 
cadence  in  the  night  owl's  mournful  call.  The 
plains  are  strewn  with  geysers,  seething  and  gurg- 
ling through  the  thick  hours  of  the  night,  while 
Old  Faithful  keeps  its  hourly  vigil. 

What  a  setting  for  a  gambol  of  the  gods! 
Everything  in  Yellowstone  is  measured  only  in 
superlatives. 

Here  imagination  revels  and  realities  are  for- 
gotten. 

This  Inferno,  illuminated  by  the  lurid  gleam  of 
phosphorus  vapors,  vivifies  the  pages  of  Dante's 
tragedy.     Sizzling  ghostly  fumes  of  steam  from  the 

40 


A'top  o'  the  World  41 

subterranean  depths  join  in  a  rumbling,  discordant 
chorus  in  the  sulphur-laden  air  and  hold  high  car- 
nival in  ghoulish  glee. 

Sir  Lucifer  himself,  on  such  a  night,  finds  relax- 
ation on  this  Devil's  Golf  Course,  a'top  o'  the  Rockies. 
The  solitary  glacier  rock,  fifty  feet  in  diameter, 
darkened  by  the  battering  of  ages,  lone  relic  of  the 
time  when  the  valleys  were  filled  with  seas  of  grind- 
ing ice,  tempts  the  devil  for  a  midnight  game  of  golf. 

With  the  mighty  thunderbolt  of  Jove,  he  drives 
from  a  tee  on  the  heights  of  the  Teton  Mountains, 
and  the  ball  soars  over  hill  and  dale,  lake  and 
crag,  sixty  miles  away  to  the  first  * 'green"  at  Ex- 
celsior, where  the  deserted  Fountain  House  tells  its 
story  of  a  glorious  past.  From  the  boiling  Mam- 
moth Paint  Pots,  he  makes  a  mashie  approach  to 
the  yawning  crater  and  sinks  it  into  the  Turquoise 
pool  in  par.  With  sardonic  grin,  he  tees  the  ball 
for  number  two,  a  short  drive  to  Black  Growler 
Vent  spewing  forth  its  murky  venom.  The  ball  lands 
in  Frying  Pan  Spring.  Sir  Lucifer,  with  sulphurous 
remarks,  brings  the  niblick  into  play  and  finishes 
the  hole,  two  under  bogie.  Mopping  the  perspira- 
tion from  his  brow,  now  forming  rivulets  that  flow 
down  the  mountainside,  he  drives  towards  the 
Devil's  Kitchen  at  Mammoth.  Here,  under  the 
halo  of  Angel  Terrace  of  snow-white  purity,  scintil- 
lating, mirror-like,  in  all  of  its  pristine  beauty,  he 
realizes   the  bunkers  and   hazards  that  must  ever 


4^  AHop  0    the  World 

keep  him  from  winning  the  contest  against  the  heav- 
enly embattlements.  Yet,  with  a  mighty  swing,  he 
carries  it  with  a  golfer's  "hook"  over  Roosevelt 
Camp,  above  the  tops  of  the  petrified  trees^,  across 
Wraith  Falls,  and  into  the  Buffalo  Farm. 

"Fore!"  he  shouts,  and  the  great  herds  of  buffalo 
scatter  in  wild  stampede. 

Teeing  the  ball,  he  spans  the  Grand  Canyon  in 
one  mighty  stroke  before  the  gallery  of  wild-eyed 
bison,  sending  it  to  rest  at  Inspiration  Point.  Here 
even  the  Devil  himself  is  entranced  by  the  beauty 
of  the  spot,  but  forces  himself  to  go  on  with  the 
game.  From  this  high  pinnacle,  he  drives  to  Os- 
prey's  Nest,  near  Turbid  Lake  and  the  Wedded  Trees. 

On  the  apex  of  a  petrified  stump,  he  tees  his 
ball  for  the  next  long  drive  across  Yellowstone  Lake 
to  West  Thumb,  but  falling  short,  loses  his  ball  in 
the  Lake.     He  indulges  in  more  golf  vernacular. 

Taking  a  magnet  from  Electric  Mountain,  he 
fishes  it  out  for  his  next  shot.  Heart's  LakCj  which 
lies  under  the  shadow  of  Mt.  Sheridan,  across  the 
Continental  Divide.  He  makes  a  flub  which  starts 
an  avalanche.  Back  again  across  the  divide,  and 
over  Shoshone  Lake,  he  drives  to  the  ninth  hole, 
where  the  Morning  Glory  Pool  reigns  in  all  her 
royal  robes  in  the  shadow  of  Old  Faithful.  After 
a  bad  slice,  he  misses  his  mark  and  a  new  geyser 
explodes  where  the  ball  strikes.  Then,  as  the 
morning  rays  of  the  sun  glisten  on  the  edges  of  the 


AHop  o'  the  World  43 

mountain  peaks,  he  takes  himself  back  into  the 
mountain  fastnesses,  as  the  geysers,  marking  the 
holes  on  the  Eighteen  Hole  course,  spout  forth  in 
ghoulish  glee  over  his  flub  score. 

Such  is  the  nightmare  of  the  golf  fan  when  he 
realizes  on  that  night  that  there  is  no  golf  course — 
or  eighteen  holes,  within  the  park,  on  which  to 
measure  his  own  strength  with  the  hazards  of  nature. 

Only  a  golf  fan  would  have  such  weird,  fan- 
tastic hallucinations;  but,  after  all,  why  not  let 
imagination  run  riot  now  and  then,  and  have  a 
game  on  a  sporty  course  that  is  not  mapped  out  in 
the  domain  of  golfdom.'^  The  folk  are  all  wearing 
knickers,  boys  and  girls,  men  and  women — all  of 
which  suggests  golf — so  golf  it  is. 

The  nocturnal  golf  game  of  his  Satanic  Majesty 
has  not  scored  to  his  satisfaction,  and  again  tradition 
records  the  fall  of  Lucifer.  He  has  not  been  able 
to  use  his  brassie  because  of  the  magnetic  influence 
of  Electric  Peak,  which  defies  all  of  the  surveying 
instruments  of  man,  and  causes  an  ordinary  com- 
pass to  dance  the  jazz. 

The  picture  of  Yellowstone  Park  as  a  playground, 
with  a  fanciful  golf  course  dotted  with  brimstone 
greens  and  suffused  with  sulphur  hazards  is  almost 
complete.  To  finish  this  dream  picture,  the  con- 
trast is  furnished  in  the  story  that  now  lurks  alone 
in  the  mysterious  traditions  of  the  Midnight  Revels 
on  the  Devil's  Golf  Course. 


VII 

Glee  of  Geysers  in  the  Wee  Sma'  Hours 

/^^ONCEIVE  of  a  more  weird  hour  to 
visit  the  geysers  and  pools  than  dur- 
ing the  wee  sma'  hours  of  the  morn- 
ing, when  woodland  and  stream  lie 
in  the  peaceful  shadows,  awaiting 
the  approach  of  the  dawn. 

Scientists  record  that  the  geysers 
are  water  volcanoes  which  occur  only  where  the  in- 
ternal heat  of  the  earth  approaches  the  surface. 
Water,  trickling  through  the  crevasses  in  the  rocks, 
or  from  subterranean  springs,  collects  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  geysers,  and,  striking  the  strata  of 
intense  heat,  throws  off  steam  in  a  manner  similar 
to  that  of  water  boiling  on  a  red-hot  stove.  The 
steam  gathers  under  the  great  pressure  and  in  such 
quantities  that  it  is  naturally  forced  out  by  its  own 
powers. 

From  these  geysers  the  onlooker  learns  the  same 
lesson  learned  by  Watt  when  he  observed  the  boil- 
ing of  his  mother's  teakettle  and  discovered  the 
use  and  power  of  steam.  The  approach  of  the  tri- 
umph of  the  age  of  steam  is  found  in  these  hot 
springs  which  cover  the  largest  area  in  the  world, 

44 


AHop  o'  the  World  45 

save  in  Iceland  and  New  Zealand,  where  the  vol- 
canic fires  are  still  active. 

These  are  natural  steam  engines,  and  in  the 
ghoulish  hours  of  the  night  there  is  something  about 
the  geysers  that  seems  more  supernatural  than  dur- 
ing the  daytime,  when  passing  in  review  under  the 
eager  eye  of  the  tourist. 

In  the  wee,  sma'  hours,  there  is  nought  that  can 
be  more  beautiful  than  Grotto  Geyser,  of  the  Upper 
Basin,  in  its  bath  of  steam,  and  Riverside  Geyser, 
shouting  to  us  across  the  river,  and  keeping  up  its 
play.  Off  through  the  lace-like  shadows,  we  hear  a 
rushing,  gushing,  like  a  silver-throated  song-bird. 
This  is  Solitaire,  the  one  big  geyser  that  furnishes 
the  water  for  the  mineral  baths  at  Old  Faithful 
Camp.  All  alone  it  stands;  yet  its  life  means 
much  to  us  all,  and  as  we  bathe  freely  in  its  waters, 
we  cannot  help  but  think  of  it  as  a  friendly  pool  of 
Siloam;  wholesome,  kindly  friend,  toiling  alone,  un- 
noticed by  the  people  of  the  world,  but  never  failing 
in  his  mission  of  cleanliness. 

It  is  then  that  Old  Giant  Geyser,  monarch  of 
them  all,  deigns  to  survey  his  observers  and  to  defy 
the  curious  and  watchful  eye  as  he  gives  vent  to 
his  wrath  in  belching  volleys  of  steam.  There  are 
also  Beehive,  ever  busy.  Beauty  Pool,  and  Black 
Sand  Geyser.  Fountain-like  springs  up  the  Daisy, 
a  fitting  companion  to  her  friend,  the  Sponge, 
named  for  its  algae  formations  which  resemble  a 


46  AHop  0   the  World 

huge   sponge.     And  let  us  not  forget   the   China- 
man's Laundry  Tub. 

We  are  told  by  the  rangers  that  any  object  thrown 
into  a  hot  spring  may  produce  a  dangerous  geyser, 
and  that  soap  thrown  into  a  hot  spring  will  fre- 
quently set  up  a  reaction  that  may  cause  a  violent 
explosion. 

Here  at  the  Laundry  Tub,  runs  Park  tradition, 
a  famous  Chinaman  who  discovered  the  hot  spring, 
determined  to  establish  a  laundry,  where  he  might 
do  business  for  the  tourists.  He  pitched  his  tent 
over  the  spring,  thinking  to  save  his  fuel  bill  in  the 
cause  of  heating  the  water,  and  set  to  work  in 
earnest. 

All  went  well  and  he  established  a  thriving  busi- 
ness. One  day  he  accidentally  dropped  into  the 
boiling  pool  his  big  cake  of  laundry  soap.  Blu-u-s-h! 
up  went  this  hot  spring  into  a  geyser,  taking  with 
it  the  Chink  and  his  tent,  together  with  his  week's 
washing.  Never  since  that  day  has  even  a  remnant 
of  that  Oriental  been  found. 

From  the  veranda  of  Old  Faithful  there  is  an  in- 
dicator. When  that  indicator  scoots  around,  it  fore- 
shadows an  eruption  of  splendor.  Nearly  every  one 
of  the  thirty-three  hundred  square  miles  of  Yellow- 
stone region  is  covered  with  an  area  of  geysers, 
many  of  which  are  marked  and  named,  and  even 
in  the  sunlight  or  moonlight  is  the  visible  sign, 
"DANGEROUS  AREA" 


AHop  o   the  World  47 

Down  in  Black  Sand  Basin  we  find  also  ,tlie 
Handkerchief  Pool,  which,  even  better  than  the 
Get-it-Quick  Laundry,  serves  as  a  place  to  launder 
our  soiled  handkerchiefs.  You  may  throw  your 
handkerchief  in.  It  disappears  from  sight  into  a 
whirling  eddy  in  the  center  of  the  pool.  It  comes 
back  after  a  minute  or  two,  and  we  harpoon  it  with 
a  cane,  all  fresh  and  clean.  If  the  handkerchief 
stays  down  longer  than  a  few  minutes,  you  may  be 
sure  that  the  Old  Boy  has  use  for  it,  and  that  the 
next  time  you  see  it,  it  will  be  hanging  on  a  clothes- 
line somewhere  in  regions  warmer  than  in  Yellowstone. 

The  little  microscopic  plants,  the  algae,  continue 
their  magic  work  night  and  day  in  painting  the  sur- 
roundings first  red,  then  yellow,  white  and  pink 
and  bluish  gray.  In  warm  weather  they  grow 
more  brilliant,  only  to  vanish  almost  to  nothingness 
when  the  air  grows  cold. 

In  this  tour,  in  the  wee,  sma'  hours,  we  realize 
more  than  ever  that  Yellowstone  is  of  volcanic 
origin,  and  that  the  scenes  which  we  now  gaze  upon 
furnish  only  a  fascinating  glimpse  of  the  tempestu- 
ous past  that  is  indicated  in  the  petrified  forest, 
where  level  after  level  of  petrified  trees  are  found  in 
alternating  strata  like  the  layers  of  strawberry 
shortcake. 

It  all  brings  to  mind  the  visions  of  Bobby  Burns 
and  the  wild  ride  of  Tam  O'Shanter  and  his  tales 
of  the  "wee,  sma'  hours  a'yant  of  the  twal." 


48  A'top  0   the  World 

Suddenly  coming  upon  the  upper  Basin,  we  are 
told  a  good  Jim  Bridger  yarn  concerning  the 
"Ear",  a  hot  spring  of  only  about  three  feet  in 
diameter,  but  which  has  near  the  lobe  section  of  its 
ear-shaped  circumference,  a  tiny  geyser,  whose 
pool  is  about  the  size  of  a  silver  dollar,  and  whose 
spouting  power  is  only  a  few  inches.  Jim  said  that 
when  the  old-time  trappers  failed  to  make  good  in 
their  expectations  for  the  day,  they  would  come 
here  and  tell  their  tales  of  woe  into  this  giant's 
ear.  At  last  the  old  man  grew  so  tired  of  listening 
to  their  troubles  that  he  placed  a  tiny  button  (the 
little  geyser)  on  one  side,  so  that  he  could  fasten 
the  flap  of  his  ear  over  and  turn  a  "deaf  ear"  to 
their  complaints. 

Under  the  rigid  regulations,  the  park  is  in  quietude 
in  the  wee,  sma'  hours,  but,  strange  to  relate,  this 
is  the  time  when  the  geysers  disport  themselves  in 
wild  abandon  and  seem  most  human  in  the  response 
to  their  various  moods.  These  are  the  hours  when 
they  continue  their  work  in  building  up  their  cal- 
careous deposits  of  silica,  the  chief  mineral  in  the 
waters  of  the  geysers.  The  word  "geyser,"  is  de- 
rived from  the  Icelandic  word,  "geysa,"  meaning  to 
gush,  and  these  were  their  gushing  hours  of  ghoulish 
glee. 

Amid  these  ghostly  apparitions,  the  geysers, 
spouting  up  through  the  darkness  like  white-robed 
specters,  at  times  when  they  are  least  expected,  the 


AHop  o   the  World  49 

animals,  too,  are  roaming  about  in  the  freedom  of 
the  wild.  Only  the  beaver  seems  to  reap  the  bene- 
fit of  a  night's  work  after  ceasing  his  gnawing  of 
aspen  trees  and  building  dams. 

Here  and  there  we  may  see  the  silhouette  of  the 
black  bear  or  of  the  cinnamon  bear,  moving  about 
restlessly  with  the  heavy  clump,  clump,  of  his  un- 
gainly legs. 

It  is  a  magnificent  sight,  these  geysers  in  play, 
with  their  great  arches  of  water  dipping  and  flutter- 
ing in  a  liquid  column,  as  if  in  a  shower  of  diamonds, 
which,  to  many  observers,  has  suggested  a  halo  about 
the  head  of  Divinity.  Every  geyser  seems  to  give 
warning  before  the  graceful  column  arises,  and  the 
falling  water  rushes  back  in  little  rivulets  as  though 
to  prepare  for  another  display. 

The  varied  color  of  the  waters  in  the  lakes  side 
by  side — the  one  purple,  another  glinted  with  red, 
and  a  third  a  pure,  transparent  white,  as  though 
the  mantles  of  the  Three  Graces,  are  the  glory  of 
the  fountains  of  youth  ever  seeking  to  beautify  the 
brimstone  depths  below.  Here  there  are  truly 
"sermons  in  stones,  books  in  the  running  brooks, 
and  good  in  everything." 

In  Old  Faithful  Inn  and  in  the  camps  along  the 
rivers  and  valleys,  awhile  mortals  sleep,  the  geysers 
stand  vigil,  giving  to  Yellowstone  the  dramatic 
touch  that  breathes,  and  arouses  emotions  and  im- 
aginings that  linger  in  the  memories  of  a  lifetime. 


50  AHop  o'  the  World 

Here  are  the  things  that  we  shall  dream  of  in  our 
tired  moments  when  we  are  struggling  with  every- 
day work  and  troubles.  Back  in  the  whirl  of  the 
world  sweet  thoughts  will  come  to  our  minds, 
when  aweary  we  lie  down  on  our  pillows  to  sleep. 
Then  will  come  the  refreshing  memories  of  the  days 
at  Yellowstone.  Somewhere  in  the  distance  we  shall 
again  hear  the  whirring  of  the  wings  of  fairies  in  the 
wee  sma'  hours,  when  the  "goblins  will  get  you" — 
a  willing  captive  in  geyser  land. 

"Bubble,  bubble,  gurgle,  splatter! 
Always  something  is  the  matter! 
I'm  the  Dragon's  Mouth,  the  geyser — 
Mother  Earth,  we  do  despise  her. 
Come  not  near  me! 
Can't  you  hear  me? 
E'en  the  beasts  and  wild  birds  fear  me! 
Down  within  me  hear  me  roaring. 
Hear  my  tumult  and  my  snoring. 
Belching  forth  with  mud  and  sulphur — 
Mother  Earth  I  would  engulf  her! 
Don't  disturb  me. 
You  perturb  me, 

There's  no  man  nor  beast  can  curb  me! 
Feel  my  hot  breath  on  your  hand  here! 
I'll  destroy  you  if  you  stand  here!" 

Thus  bellows  the  boiling  pot  of  mud  and  sulphur 
known  as  the  "Mud  Volcano."  Quietly  bubbling 
at  one  moment,  it  growls,  spits,  and  curses  the  next. 
Spouts  of  mud  are  splattering  here  and  there,  some- 
times reaching  as  high  as  the  trunks  of  the  trees  on 
the   crags   above.     I    stand   waiting   for   the   next 


AHop  o'  the  World  51 

move,  but  even  as  I  stand  there  comes  to  me  a  call 
from  far  away — a  beckoning  to  the  snowflaked 
mountains,  a  call  from  the  pits  of  Lucifer  to  the 
peace  of  the  far-away  hills,  and  with  joyful  step  I 
leave  this  turbulence  of  hell  for  the  more  peaceful 
country  of  Old  Faithful.  Yet,  even  as  I  move  away, 
the  demon  seems  to  call  after  me: 

"Ka-lop,  Ke-Iop! 
I  shall  not  stop 

Until  IVe  marred  the  great  earth*s  features, 
Scalded,  blinded  all  her  creatures." 


VIII 

Dawn  at  Old  Faithful,  Eternity's 
Timepiece 

N  many  great  dramas  and  operatic 
masterpieces  the  curtain  rises  upon 
the  dim  virgin  hght  of  a  new  dawn. 
It  brings  with  it  the  atmosphere  of 
a  beginning — a  soothing  prologue  to 
the  birth  of  day.  It  carries  the 
echoes  of  the  whispering  night,  when 
the  moon  had  beat  to  the  windward,  and  stranded 
on  the  palhd  coast  of  morn.  It  all  breathes  of 
the  hope  that  springs  Eternal  in  the  human  breast. 
This  closing  chapter  paradoxically  deals  with  the 
dawn.  It  is  the  scene  that  comes  first  and  last  to 
mind  in  the  magic  of  "Yellowstone"  memories — the 
Dawn  at  Old  Faithful.  It  was  the  epilogue  of  the 
days  in  Dreamland. 

The  great  clock  over  the  huge  fireplace  in  the 
lobby  of  the  Inn,  with  its  massive  pendulum,  is  the 
watchman  of  the  night. 

We  are  called  early  for  the  dawn.  In  the  half- 
awake  moments  the  refrain  of  "Cadman's  "Dawn" 
rings  in  my  ears,  with  its  chromatic,  melodic  charm 
sounding  the  bugle  call  of  love,  where  "all  the  sounds 
of  morning  meet."   The  filmy  tenderness  of  cloudland 

52 


AHop  o'  the  World  53 

in  all  its  subtle,  indefinable  charm,  seems  all-per- 
vading as  we  gather  in  groups  on  the  veranda.  We 
have  come  by  ones  and  twos,  rubbing  our  eyes.  All 
are  intent  on  the  watches,  counting  the  seconds  to 
see  if  Old  Faithful  will  join  the  dawn-fest  on  time, 
but  this  does  not  check  an  occasional  yawn.  There 
are  doubters,  but  faith  is  dominant  among  those 
who  have  come  to  look  upon  the  light  of  the  great 
Geyser  which  John  Burroughs  and  Theodore  Roose- 
velt gazed  upon  and  pronounced  the  "wonder- 
fountain  of  Time." 

Here  before  this  great  palace  of  rough-hewn  logs 
the  christening  party  is  gathered  to  see  the  new 
born  day  baptized  in  the  waters  of  a  fountain  Eter- 
nal. To  some  it  is  the  first,  and  to  others  the  last 
act  witnessed  in  the  drama  of  the  Yellowstone.  To 
me  it  is  the  finale  of  the  great  play  that  began  with 
the  Morning  Stars,  and  passed  through  the  other 
Lights  and  Shadows  of  a  Day  Eternal. 

There  is  a  hush — the  chatter  ceases — no  signal 
flash  is  necessary.  We  feel  that  the  moment  has 
arrived.  Slowly  rising  from  her  earthly  bed  the 
white  light  of  the  waters  appears  against  the  back- 
ground of  the  forest.  The  sheen  of  the  foam  begins 
to  overpower  the  mists — it  lives!  The  waters  rush 
up  and  up;  higher  and  higher  it  surges  as  if  eager 
to  nestle  in  the  bosom  of  the  cloud  overhead.  The 
overture  medley  of  steam  and  vapor  grows  louder 
with  rapid  crescendo.     Onward,  upward,  the  pillar 


54  AHop  o    the  World 

of  water  climbs  higher  until  it  has  reached  more 
than  a  hundred  feet;  then,  as  if  shaking  its  head 
triumphantly,  it  begins  a  graceful  descent,  and  clings 
to  the  whistling  mane  of  morning  wind.  The  dawn 
has  been  christened  in  jeweled  light  of  glittering 
jets. 

The  sun  is  not  yet  risen.  The  dreamless  drapery 
of  a  peaceful  awakening  is  drawn  aside,  and  the 
searchlight  of  the  advancing  rays  of  the  Sun  tints 
the  clouds  with  queenly  radiance. 

Old  Faithful  is  crowned — Eternity's  Timepiece. 

In  the  beauty  of  dawn  it  presents  a  symbol  to 
man — ^fortifying  Faith  in  man  and  his  Maker. 
Arrayed  in  the  hues  of  the  rainbow,  it  reveals  the 
new  prophecy,  remindful  of  that  given  to  Noah, 
**no  more  the  deluge  of  human  blood." 

Hour  after  hour,  for  countless  millions  of  hours 
in  days  agone,  Old  Faithful  has  given  its  message 
of  loyalty  and  truth,  measuring  every  hour  as  it 
passes  in  the  march  of  endless  time.  With  an  out- 
burst of  inanimate  ecstasy,  keeping  step  with  Old 
Father  Time  longer  than  any  work  of  man's  handi- 
craft. Eternity's  Timepiece  brings  its  benediction 
of  good  will  and  hope  through  the  dawns  of  the 
centuries. 


IX 

Witchery  of  moonlight  on  the  Lake 


T 


'ONIGHT  Yellowstone  Lake  is  lying 
placidly  in  the  witchery  of  the 
moonlight,  on  the  bosom  of  the 
Rockies,  with  the  expanse  of  an  in- 
land sea.  A  mile  and  a  half  above 
the  ocean  level  is  this  peerless  jewel 
of  the  Park,  with  its  shore  line  of 
more  than  a  hundred  miles.  Fed  by  the  springs 
and  the  snow  drifts  of  Absaroka  Range,  its  waters, 
cold  and  clear  and  transparent,  reveal  pictures  of 
fishes  in  their  nooks,  enjoying  the  full  freedom  of 
the  park  waters. 

Fishing  by  moonlight  is  a  romantic  experience; 
and  each  visitor  is  permitted  to  catch  ten  trout  and 
ten  minutes  is  the  record  time  for  the  quota.  The 
lake  was  formerly  shaped  somewhat  like  the  human 
hand,  but  all  that  now  remains  of  the  fingers  is  what 
appears  to  be  the  Thumb.  There  are  but  few  large 
lakes  in  the  world  with  higher  altitude  than  Yellow- 
stone, and  these  rest  in  the  unexplored  regions  of 
the  Andes  and  in  the  lofty  tablelands  of  Thibet. 

The  sunsets  and  sunrises  on  Yellowstone  Lake  are 
known  for  their  beauty,  but  nothing  can  surpass 

57 


58  '        AHop  o'  the  World 

this  moonlight  picture,  when  the  resplendent  waters 
rest  in  the  halo  of  Luna's  splendor.  The  primeval 
solitude  of  the  night  is  broken  by  the  merriment 
of  parties  sailing  on  the  lake,  as  their  merry  songs 
echo  over  the  dancing  waters. 

Through  the  transportation  methods,  the  parties 
are  conveniently  transferred.  One  group  may  go 
out  in  the  boat  at  one  time,  and  others  may  join 
the  rollicking  band  of  funmakers  who  are  singing 
their  jolly  songs  on  the  shore.  It  develops  a  jovial 
spirit  of  democracy  and  camaraderie  among  the 
tourists.  Ah,  the  boats  are  ready  and  our  names 
are  being  called. 

Sure  enough,  here  are  the  ranger  lad  and  the 
titian-haired  belle  again — and  they're  still  talking 
about  something.  What  is  it.^  Not  for  me  to  know 
or  to  say.  While  the  others  of  our  party  are  in- 
dulging in  expressions  of  ecstasy  and  listening  to 
the  stories  of  the  Lake,  the  twain  vanish  aft  and  are 
considerably  forgotten.  They  are  oblivious  of  all 
else — save  each  other. 

Once  fairly  gliding  out  on  the  waters,  we  notice 
a  series  of  strange,  indefinable  sounds  coming  from 
overhead.  We  are  told  that  these  are  found  in  no 
other  place.  They  have  an  apparent  motion  through 
the  air  in  the  general  direction  as  from  north  to 
south.  They  resemble  the  ringing  of  telegraph 
wires,  or  the  humming  of  a  swarm  of  bees,  beginning 
softly    in    the    distance    and    increasing    in    gentle 


A'top  o'  the  World  59 

crescendo  until  they  seem  to  be  just  overhead,  Hke 
the  drone  of  an  airplane;  then  they  fade  in  the 
opposite  direction. 

Over  on  the  Absaroka  Range  of  Mountains  there  is 
a  formation  known  as  the  Sleeping  Giant.  The  out- 
lines of  his  face,  upturned  to  the  sky,  are  as  of  the  per- 
fect features  of  a  man,  a  huge  giant,  sleeping  under 
the  stars.  We  can  even  imagine  that  his  chest  moves 
up  and  down  as  he  lies  at  rest.  Perhaps  this  weird 
sound  which  we  hear  is  the  deep  breathing  of  this 
old  man  of  the  mountain.  At  least,  it  is  reasonable 
to  suppose  that  the  Indians  might  have  added  this 
to  the  superstitions,  the  reverence  and  the  dread  in 
which  they  held  this  lake. 

The  giant  continues  his  eternal  slumber,  as  the 
throng  in  the  boats  sing  and  laugh,  but  the  wrinkles 
of  the  peaks  which  form  the  profile  skyline  soften 
in  the  moonlight.  A  practical  minded  Yankee 
grocer  in  the  party  declared:  **The  old  giant  snores 
almost  as  loud  as  Deacon  Barnes  back  home."  It 
was  a  geyser  speaking. 

There  is  the  single  clap  of  thunder — a  veritable 
bolt  from  the  clear  moonlight  sky,  coming  without 
warning  and  without  the  accompaniment  of  rain- 
drops. It  was  in  one  of  these  lightning  flashes 
accompanying  a  clap  of  thunder  that  a  member  of  a 
government  surveying  party  was  killed  in  1885. 
For  Yellowstone  Lake  has  also  its  tragedies. 

The  sheen  of  the  waters  adds  a  piquancy  to  the 


60  AHop  o   the  World 

sight  of  the  lover-Hke,  age-old,  twin  Teton  peaks  in 
the  distance,  lying  like  great,  white  pearls  surmount- 
ing a  necklace  formed  by  the  snow-capped  peaks  of 
the  range,  glistening  in  the  moonlight. 

All  suggests  the  quietude  and  grandeur  of  a 
heavenly  peace — a  peace  that  has  ever  been  a 
blessed  message  to  man  in  Yellowstone. 

Time  is  forgotten. 

Days  pass  by;  the  petty  things  of  the  world  are 
lost  as  the  eye,  reflecting  the  peace  of  the  soul, 
gazes  in  wonderment  by  night  and  by  day  upon  the 
majesty  of  God's  handiwork. 

At  Yellowstone  the  calendar  is  forgotten;  time  is 
measured  only  by  the  moods  of  Mother  Nature  that 
diffuse  through  the  very  being  of  man  and  give  to 
him  that  unconscious  knowledge  that  the  hours  are 
passing  for  Time  and  Eternity.  Under  the  spell  of 
a  natural,  unrestrained  goodness,  all  creatures  and 
even  the  forests  that  stretch  themselves  out  under 
the  canopy  of  the  heavens,  seem  to  be  imbued  with 
a  spirit  of  goodness  and  godliness.  Our  senses  are 
inspired  with  prayer — not  a  prayer  of  words,  but  an 
overwhelming  sense  of  gratitude  to  the  Almighty, 
who  has  jSermitted  us  to  live  and  to  stand  aloft  on 
the  heights,  even  as  stood  Moses,  and  to  lift  up  our 
hearts  in  an  ecstasy  of  praise;  "y^^j  l^t  the  heart  of 
man  sing  unto  God  of  the  glories  of  heaven  and  the 
wonders  of  the  earth." 

Yellowstone    Lake    is    queen    of    the    thirty-six 


AHop  d  the  World  61 

named  lakes  in  Yellowstone  Park.  It  covers  an 
area  of  one  hundred  and  sixty -five  square  miles. 
During  the  summer  the  crystal  waves  dance  and 
sparkle,  proclaiming  their  freedom  and  proving  that 
lakes,  like  human  beings,  have  their  emotions. 

As  the  boat  turns  her  prow  shoreward  and  nears 
the  wharf,  the  young  couple  from  aft  appear  again. 
They,  probably,  have  not  been  thinking  of  all  of 
the  details,  dimensions,  and  facts  concerning  the 
Lake  and  its  beauty;  but  under  the  lure  of  the 
moonlight  on  the  silvery  waters,  it  is  evident  that 
Luna  once  again  has  held  sway.  The  diary  records 
that  these  lovers  found  their  try  sting  place  beneath  the 
spell  of  the  witchery  of  moonlight  in  Yellowstone  Lake. 

Say  farewell  to  the  lake,  for  we  are  on  our  way 
out  into  the  meadow  land  and  canyons  rising  from 
Yellowstone  River.  Nobody,  save  the  moon  and 
the  winding  river,  is  here  to  see.  North  and  south, 
east  and  west,  stretch  out  into  long  strips  of  sage 
and  thistle.  The  trail  follows  the  inundations  of 
the  river.  On  either  side  are  the  virgin  hay  fields 
where  the  elk  feed.  We  find  ourselves  on  the  edge 
of  a  pine  forest.  Here  are  the  motorists,  the  tramp- 
ers  and  the  campers,  all  bringing  their  little  tents  to 
pitch  them  on  Uncle  Sam's  Playgrounds,  for  there 
is  room  for  all.  His  hospitality  reaches  from  Maine 
to  California.  Now  they  have  gone  to  bed  for  the 
night,  the  camp  fire  songs  are  ended,  and  all  is  quiet. 

Pit-a-pat!     There  is  a  soft  rustle  of  crackling  foot- 


6£  AHop  o    the  World 

steps  through  the  dry  pine  needles.  The  sound  is 
nearer.  Two  large,  bright  eyes  glisten  in  the  moon- 
light. 'Tis  an  elk,  come  down  from  the  hillsides  for 
a  refreshing  drink  in  the  stream.  He  sees  me,  and 
I  almost  expect  to  hear  the  fraternal  "Hello,  Bill." 
He  pricks  up  his  ears  for  one  brief  moment,  knows 
that  all  is  well,  and  slowly  lowers  his  graceful  neck 
until  his  nostrils  touch  the  cool  waters.  Here  it  is 
that  man  and  beast  know  and  love  each  other;  the 
elk,  the  bear,  the  deer,  the  moose,  the  buffalo  and 
the  jack-rabbit,  the  woodchuck  and  the  chipmunk 
— all  make  their  homes  together  in  peace,  here  in 
the  playground  of  men. 

The  wild  flowers  have  all  folded  their  petals  in 
peace  for  the  night,  and  the  world  is  asleep.  Let  us 
slip  away  from  this  sacred  spot  and  journey  upward 
in  the  mountain  trails  until  we  feel  as  though  we 
may  reach  out  with  our  hands  and  touch  the  silvery 
points  of  the  heavenly  crescent.     Yea,  God  is  near. 


X 

Splendors  of  Noontide  at  the  Canyon 

ERE  is  Yellowstone  transcendent! 

Out  from  the  shadows  of  the 
clustered  pines  I  find  myself  at  Ar- 
tist's Point.  Even  this  superlative 
designation  passes  into  the  mists  of 
memory  after  that  first  view. 
The  stupendous  panorama  prompts 
no  vocal  effort,  because  the  first  glimpse  lulls  one's 
very  soul  to  silent  reverence  as  the  voice  of  the 
Almighty  speaks  amid  the  soft  tones  of  the  distant 
rushing  waters.  The  choral  anthem  of  Nature 
sounds  through  a  vision  of  splendor,  touching  the 
horizon  of  infinity. 

Alone,  I  find  myself  speaking  audibly — and  no  one 
hears.  A  picture  i^  imagined,  not  outlined,  in  the 
physical  contour.  Halt  closing  my  eyes,  I  hear  the 
diapason  of  the  lower  falls,  and  I  see  the  cataract 
convoluted  in  an  octave  of  currents,  as  it  sweeps  over 
the  precipice.  It  is  Nature's  unending  symphony, 
like  a  mighty  organ  sounding  now  and  then  a  magna 
chord  of  joy.  My  heart  leaps  within  me  and  the 
words  come  to  my  lips: 

"That  light  whose  smile  kindles  the  universe. 
That  beauty  in  which  all  things  live  and  move." 
63 


64  A'top  o'  the  World 

This  inspires  the  fancy  picture  with  the  feehng 
that  it  is  the  music  of  a  wedding  day  celebrating 
the  unity  of  the  glories  of  heaven  and  the  wonders 
of  earth. 

It  is  indeed  God's  own  temple,  fashioned  by  the 
hand  of  the  Supreme  Architect.  Castle  and  turret, 
nave  and  aisle,  minaret  and  spire,  all  the  triumphs 
of  form  and  color  are  here.  The  prismatic  sands  and 
strata  of  every  conceivable  hue,  revealing  the  con- 
vulsive travail  of  volcanic  shock,  give  color  to  this 
colossal  cathedral  of  the  Lord  of  Creation. 

Along  the  frieze  of  the  heaven-blue  skyline  are 
myriads  of  steepled  pines.  Nature,  animate  and 
still,  all  crowned  in  glorious  emerald,  on  the  very 
parapets  of  time,  like  "fabrics  of  enchantment  piled 
to  Heaven." 

Through  this  aisle  of  the  ages  the  magnificent 
nuptial  pageant  passes  and  the  white  foam  of  the 
laughing  waters  are  the  blossoms  strewn  before  the 
footfall  of  the  bride.  The  chorus  from  "rocks  and 
rills  and  templed  hills"  joins  with  the  carillon  in  the 
canyon.  From  her  eyried  heights  soars  the  mother 
eagle,  living  spirit  of  our  nation,  bringing  sustenance 
from  afar  to  her  eaglets  nestling  in  their  rugged 
home  on  the  uppermost  crag,  a  pillar  of  the  vaulted 
roof  of  this  mighty,  majestic  temple  of  God. 

It  is  a  jubilation  of  peace  eternal. 

The  titanic  struggles  of  Mother  Earth  of  aeons 
past  is  ended;    paeans  of  praise  are  sounded  from 


AHop  o'  the  World  65 

the  very  depths  of  the  soul  of  Nature;  man  and  his 
strife  fade  as  before  the  splendor  of  the  Apocalypse! 
The  conflicts  of  the  ages  from  the  epoch  when  earth 
first  lifted  above  the  waters,  have  ceased;  all  nature 
is  in  harmony  with  the  spirit  of  this  hour,  the  nup- 
tials of  heaven  and  earth,  joined  in  infinity. 

The  shadows  of  high  noonday  are  playing  on 
the  walls  of  the  great  canyon  temple,  marking  the 
cloistered  nave,  where  the  trees,  hoary-aged  and 
young,  are  bowing  their  heads  in  adoration  before 
the  altar  of  the  Eternal.  In  the  crypts  nearby  the 
old  giants  of  the  forest,  moss-covered,  mingle  with 
mottled  rocks,  reminders  of  a  past  far  beyond  human 
ken,  and  under  all  lie  the  mighty  sealed  catacombs 
holding  Time's  secrets. 

**0h,  how  glorious  it  all  is,"  declares  a  woman 
librarian  from  California,  as  she  gazes  into  the 
depths  of  the  canyon.  "See  the  greatness  of  the 
depths  and  the  wonder  of  the  heights.  Feel  the 
strangeness  of  it  all!  And  yet,  the  greatest  thrill 
that  comes  to  me  as  I  look  into  the  almightiness  of 
it  all  is  this:  As  small  as  I  may  seem,  beside  these 
almost  indescribable  mountains  and  vales,  Thou  oh 
Lord,  hath  made  me  greater  than  all  of  these." 

Comes  now  the  great  plea  for  reverence,  for  in- 
deed God  has  given  man  power  over  all.  "I  will 
lift  up  mine  eyes  unto  the  hills  from  whence  cometh 
my  help;  my  help  cometh  from  the  Lord  which 
made  heaven  and  earth." 


66  AHop  o'  the  World 

A  kindly  light  leads  on  and  on  down  the  canyon, 

falling  "over  moor  and  fen,  o'er  crag  and  torrent," 

attuning  the  harp  of  memories  "loved  long  since  and 

lost  awhile." 

"Where  e'er  that  power  is  felt 
Which  wields  the  world  with  never-wearied  love, 
Sustains  from  earth  and  kindles  above." 

Near  me  sits  a  little  girl,  gazing  in  awe  upon  the 
grandeur  as  it  unfolds  in  surges  of  glory.  The  silence 
of  her  reverie  is  broken: 

"Oh,  how  I  wish  Mother  was  here  to  enjoy  this 
with  me!"   she  exclaims,  as  if  to  herself. 

"Is  she  far  away.f^"  I  ask,  looking  into  her  tear- 
glistening  eyes. 

"Yes,  she  is  somewhere  yonder,"  she  softly  replies, 
"out  beyond  those  clouds." 

Far  adown  the  winding  valley  the  light  leads  on 
and  on.  In  the  veiled  fleecy  "clouds  out  yonder," 
the  celestial  and  the  terrestrial  touch  in  the  vale  of 
the  Yellowstone  and  soothe  a  lonely  child's  longing 
for  a  sainted  mother. 


XI 

Vesper  Lights  and  Shadows  in  God's  Temple 

ESPER  time  glides  in  on  tip-toe  to- 
day. After  the  rest  of  noontide, 
and  as  the  fidgety  hour  of  four 
approaches,  when  the  tea  is  served 
to  quiet  the  nerves,  and  when  every- 
one is  looking  for  somewhere  to  go 
and  something  to  do,  we  wander 
out  to  Inspiration  Point.  Away  from  the  rush  and 
lash  of  everyday  duties,  we  catch  the  lights  and 
shadows  in  God's  Temple  at  Vesper  hour.  The 
spell  of  the  noonday  scene  from  Artist's  Point  is 
revived.  A  reverential  mood  is  uppermost  as  we 
climb  out  to  the  projecting  bridge  and  look  up  and 
down  the  Canyon. 

Radiating  from  the  Canyon  are  walks  and  drives 
to  fit  every  mood  and  whim.  All  these  lead  to  In- 
spiration Point,  which  projects  over  the  rocks  of 
the  Canyon  like  an  unfinished  bridge.  Here  the  en- 
tranced eye  may  sweep  up  aad  down  the  Canyon, 
viewing  an  unparalleled  panorama  of  the  Yellow- 
stone River,  throbbing  like  a  great  artery  in  the 
heart  of  the  chasm.  Here  also  is  Grand  View,  which 
like  the  Hoodoos,  might  have  been  the  dwelling  place 

67 


68  A'top  0    the  World 

of  giants  of  long  ago.  Other  roads  lead  to  Uncle 
Tom's  Trail,  a  steep  descent  to  the  base  of  Lower 
Falls.  Here  at  all  hours  of  the  day  bravely  march 
long  lines  of  tourists,  going  up  and  down  the  ledge, 
each  holding  the  hand  of  the  other  for  security.  A 
long  iron  pipe  to  which  you  may  cling,  follows  the 
trail  to  its  foot.  Standing  almost  under  the  falls, 
we  see  the  rainbows  in  the  mist.  From  a  rock 
nearby  there  bubbles  a  little  hot  spring,  the  only 
geyser  to  be  seen  in  this  shadowed  section,  and 
curiously  enough,  this  is  scarcely  the  size  of  a  little 
saucepan  in  which  one  might  wish  to  boil  an  egg. 
The  way  up  the  trail  is  steep  and  hard  to  climb, 
but  it  is  worth  the  after-aches.  The  cool,  refresh- 
ing air  of  the  Canyon  enables  us  to  ascend  without 
much  difficulty.  Terraced  above  are  the  Upper 
Falls,  where  the  rainbows  cross  each  other,  remind- 
ing us,  even  here,  of  God's  wonderful  promise  to 
mankind.  The  weird  melodies  of  the  rushing  stream 
and  the  whispering  of  the  breezes  through  the 
gulches  blend  with  those  of  the  rushing  waters  of 
the  Twin  Sister  below. 

Here  are  the  age-old  Castle  Ruins.  We  fancy 
how  the  giants  must  have  dwelt  here  in  the  days  of 
the  Mastodons;  giants  who  fought  their  battles  by 
hurling  huge  boulders  at  one  another,  and  who 
made  the  mountain  tremble  with  their  combats. 
As  the  shadows  ripple  along  the  Canyon  they  seem 
to  gather  in  the  folds  of  sunshine.     The  beauty  of  it 


AHop  o   the  World  69 

rests  our  souls  as  we  gaze  with  contemplative  awe 
upon  it.  The  light  is  slowly  curtained  with  a  falling 
drapery  of  ethereal  softness,  and  the  most  that  one 
can  do  in  the  presence  of  this  new  splendor  is  to  rest 
upon  these  rocks  of  time  and  ponder  on  the  marvel, 
and  to  wonder  if  ever  the  picture  will  be  finished. 
The  green  trees  smile  upon  the  reverie.  Across  the 
slanting  walls  of  the  Canyon  are  what  appear  to  be 
tiny  shoots  of  winter  moss;  yet  through  the  glasses 
you  find  the  moss  in  reality  resolves  into  vast  groves 
of  tall  pine  trees  that  have  struggled  for  a  foot- 
hold on  the  eroded  parapet.  Such  is  the  solemnity 
of  the  Canyon  at  vesper  time. 

Half -closing  the  eyes  and  peering  into  the  waters 
below,  the  turbulent  ripples  appear  to  be  still. 

There  in  the  depths  of  the  torrent  you  may  see 
the  foam  rushing  by  like  clouds  of  the  sky  in  the  mir- 
rored depths. 

The  lights  are  constantly  changing,  and  with  each 
view  comes  the  thrill  of  discovery. 

In  the  lazy  hours  of  the  afternoon  a  thrilling  spec- 
tacle, not  surpassed  in  the  movies,  is  presented  to 
the  spectators.  A  venturesome  young  tourist  has 
not  been  able  to  suppress  his  longing  to  scale  the 
precipitous  slopes  of  the  Canyon.  For  four  hours 
the  spectators  breathlessly  watch  the  rescue  by  a 
ranger.  The  tourist,  breathless  from  exhaustion,  is 
able  to  climb  lio  farther  from  a  point  within  a  hun- 
dred feet  from  the  top.     His  cry  has  brought  the 


70  A'top  o'  the  World 

ranger  to  his  rescue.  A  rope  is  thrown  down,  the 
explorer  seizes  it.  Then,  because  of  his  exhausted 
condition  he  is  lowered  in  order  that  he  may  drink 
of  the  refreshing  water  in  the  river  below.  He  is 
so  revived  that  he  is  able  to  be  hauled  to  the  top 
by  means  of  an  easier  trail.  The  onlookers  watch 
the  rescue  with  bated  breath.  A  hearty  cheer  goes 
up  as  they  appear  above  the  surface  of  the  rocks, 
and  a  prayer  of  thankfulness  for  his  safety  is  on 
every  lip.  The  brave  ranger  and  the  hotel  boy  have 
saved  a  human  life. 

We  are  farther,  farther  away  from  the  falls,  but 
even  the  music  of  the  waters  seems  to  be  softened  to 
harmonize  with  the  sweet,  soft  lights  of  the  vesper 
shadows,  as  the  evensong  blends  with  the  fading 
lights  through  memorial  windows  in  the  "little 
church"  back  home. 

All  along  in  this  balcony  are  the  many  points  of 
observation,  thronged  with  those  looking  on  in 
silence.  The  one  picture  that  never  will  fade  from 
memory  is  that  of  the  old  man  and  his  wife  sitting 
on  the  rocks,  snuggling  close  together  like  lovers. 
With  his  arm  about  her  waist,  he  is  pointing  here 
and  there,  as  if  indicating  the  pathway  that  comes  in 
the  Last  Sunset. 

There  is  the  sweet,  soft,  lingering  smile  on  her 
face,  the  glorified  reflection  of  the  smile  of  the  lass 
she  was  when  she  looked  into  the  face  of  her  young 
lover  in  "Auld  Lang  Syne."     We  do  not  need  to  be 


AHop  d  the  World  71 

told  her  life's  history  nor  that  of  the  old  man  at  her 
side;  the  picture  is  before  us,  the  picture  to  which 
still  clings  the  hallowed  sweetness  of  the  bridal  hour. 
Their  hands  are  withered  and  wrinkled,  their  brows 
are  furrowed,  and  in  the  lengthening  rays  of  the  ap- 
proaching twilight,  their  hair  glistens  with  the  silver 
of  a  brooklet  in  the  meadowland  at  Springtime. 
On  this  peak,  all  alone,  sit  "Darby  and  Joan." 

"Always  the  same,  Darby  my  own, 
Always  the  same  to  your  old  wife,  Joan. 
Hand  in  hand  when  our  life  was  May, 
Hand  in  hand  when  our  hair  is  gray. 
Shadow  and  sun  for  everyone, 

As  the  years  roll  on; 
Hand  in  hand  when  the  long  night-tide, 
Gently  covers  us  side  by  side — 
Oh!  lad,  though  we  know  not  when, 
Love  will  be  with  us  forever  then; 
Always  the  same.  Darby,  my  own. 
Always  the  same  to  your  old  wife,  Joan." 

^Hand  in  hand  during  Nature's  vesper  hour  the 
prophecy  of  the  past  is  revealed. 

And  in  these  vesper  shadows  the  pledge  is  re- 
newed, for  it  was  at  vesper  time  half  a  century  and 
more  ago  when  Darby  and  Joan  pledged  "love 
forever." 

"Shall  we  sit  together  some  day  in  life's  broken 
shadows.?" 

Passing  youth  paused:   it  was  love's  sacrament. 


XII 

In  Fields  of  Snow  and  Flowers 

OLLOWING  the  bugle  call  of  the 
Klaxton,  we  drive  from  Canyon  over 
Mt.  Washburn  on  Chittenden  Road 
and  through  the  famous  Dunraven 
Pass.  Through  the  gorge  and  wind- 
ing up  the  summit  we  go,  over  roads 
where  it  would  seem  almost  impos- 
sible for  cars  to  pass;  but  even  here  the  transporta- 
tion is  so  routed  that  one  is  safer  in  the  hands  of  the 
efficient  guides  than  he  is  among  the  wild  "Jehus" 
and  joy  riders  of  our  city  streets. 

High  aloft  is  the  land  of  flowers.  The  jagged 
brows  of  the  cliffs  are  garlanded  in  wreaths  of  blos- 
soms. A  riot  of  color  and  variety  are  found  in  these 
beds  of  wild  flowers  of  the  mountain.  Skirting  the 
crest,  we  gaze  in  wonder  over  the  mountainside, 
carpeted  with  myriads  of  flowers.  Mother  Nature  is 
the  weaver  of  these  floral  tapestries;  she  catches  all 
the  rich,  deep  colors  of  the  Orient,  harmonizing  all  of 
the  blue  of  the  heavens,  all  of  the  gold  of  the  stars,  all 
of  the  silver  of  the  moon,  all  of  the  snows  of  the  moun- 
tain tops,  and  all  of  the  green  of  the  valleys.  These 
she  mingles  into  warp  and  woof,  a  symphony   of 

72 


A  horseback  party  ready  to  leave  Lamp  Roosevelt  Jor  a  seven-mile  trip  to  the  jossil 

forests  of  the   Yellowstone.      These  forests  exhibit   the   largest    area   of   standing 

petrified  trees  in  the  world 


A  tent  section  in  one  of  the  permanent   summer  camps.     At   some   camps    the 

sleeping  quarters  are  bungalow  tents;    at  others  little  cottages,  and  at  others  log 

cabins.      Note  the  hedge  of  elk  antlers  in  the  foreground 


73 


m^^^^m&>-m'^^^^ 


Copyright  by  J.  E.  Hayne:? 

Every  variety  of  Nativ\\.  ..J!u..r^  -_//:.  ;j  i.   ;/:.  zn  Yelloiistone      Here  is 

Grasshopper  Glacier:  the  figure  of  a  man  in  the  foreground  indicates  the  propor- 
tions of  this  glacier.  It  is  of  unknown  age,  and  extends  in  a  sheer  white  expanse 
for  a  space  roughly  in  extent  between  a  mile  and  three-quarters  of  a  mile.  The 
upper  covering  is  compacted  snow,  the  under  layer  blue  ice.  The  surface  of  the 
glacier  to  a  great  depth  is  fdled  with  dead  grasshoppers,  hence  its  name 


74 


AHop  o'  the  World  75 

petals  nodding  to  the  music  of  the  breezes.  It 
repictures  that  exquisite  vision  of  Shelley: 

"The  light  of  laughing  flowers  along  the  grass  is  spread." 

Here  we  behold  Fairyland — field  upon  field  of  the 
lovely  white  and  yellow  bitter-root;  borders  of  the 
Indian's  paint  brush,  delicate  mounds  of  monk's 
hood  and  wild  geranium,  and  adorning  the  vari- 
colored rocks  of  the  gulches  are  the  fragrant  clusters 
of  the  wild  rose.  The  modest  violet  of  the  spring- 
time garden  touches  this  huge  palette  with  its  purple- 
blue,  while  here  the  rare  yellow  violet  reflects  the 
gold  of  the  coming  noontide. 

Nestling  beside  the  great  drifts  of  snow,  peep 
myriads  of  bright-eyed  dandelions.  Bordering  the 
white  snow-line  of  the  high  mountains,  like  a  brave 
golden  braid,  are  the  tiny  sunflowers,  proud  of  their 
distinction  in  being  closer  to  the  warm  rays  of  the 
Source  of  Light  than  are  their  strident  brothers  on 
the  plains  of  Kansas.  Even  the  wayside  weed  has 
a  charm  of  its  own  in  this  brigade  of  leaf  and  bloom. 

Four-fifths  of  the  area  of  the  Park  is  timbered. 
The  dominant  tree  throughout  is  the  lodgepole  pine. 
This  species  is  most  abundant  on  the  park  plateau, 
but  extends  up  the  slopes  of  the  mountains  for  some 
distance,  and  adorns  the  passes  toward  the  entrances, 
having  a  lower  altitude  limit  of  about  7,000  feet.  It 
constitutes  about  two-thirds  of  the  total  tree  popu- 
lation. It  is  the  tree  that  forms  the  characteristic 
close-set,  slender-stemmed  forests.     Below  the  limit 


76  AHopy^Jhe  World 

of  the  lodgepole  the  Hmber  pine  holds  sway,  and 
above  it,  toward  timberUne  on  the  mountains,  the 
white-bark  pine  is  abundant.  Douglas  spruce  and 
Engleman  spruce  are  abundant  in  more  favored  loca- 
tions than  those  held  by  the  pines,  and  there  is  also 
a  little  fir  or  balsam  timber.  There  are  few  trees 
that  are  not  evergreens.  The  principal  one  is  the 
aspen,  which  abounds  in  denuded  and  burnt-over 
areas,  and  around  the  edges  of  some  of  the  other 
timber.  Other  species,  like  maple,  birch  and  alder, 
are  large  bushes  rather  than  trees.  Besides  the  trees 
there  is  a  great  abundance  of  smaller  plant  life: 
shrubs  and  wild  flowers,  over  650  distinct  varieties. 
Dry,  open  places  are  dominated  by  the  sagebrush. 
With  the  sagebrush  at  the  lower  altitudes  is  associ- 
ated the  yellow-flowered  rabbit-brush,  and  in  one  or 
two  isolated  spots,  the  greasewood.  Wild  flowers 
are  everywhere,  from  yellow  water-lilies  in  the  ponds 
to  cactus  and  stonecrops  in  the  desert  wastes. 

God's  finger  has  touched  the  canyon  and  the 
mountainside,  blending  summer  and  winter  in  peace- 
ful fellowship,  while  the  shadows  trail  toward  the 
zenith  hour.j 

Around  the  curve  swings  a  big,  bulky  wagon,  re- 
minding us  of  the  transport  of  the  early  days — the 
prairie  schooner.  The  sure-footed  pack  horses  and 
the  fuzzy  little  mountain  burros  carry  the  equip- 
ment necessary  to  keep  these  fine  roads  in  repair. 
The  snowdrifts  were  being  blasted,  and  even  now  a 


AHop  o'  the  World  77 

blizzard  threatens  on  the  top  of  Mt.  Washburn,  fol- 
lowing swiftly  the  coquettish  zephyrs  of  the  morning 
hours. 

Men  are  digging  into  the  hard  ground,  shovelling 
the  granite-like  snow  from  the  trails.  Everybody 
waves  a  salute  to  the  good  natured  workmen,  for 
we  are  all  kin. 

It  was  their  courage  that  made  possible  these  aerial 
pathways  which  enable  us  to  glimpse  the  frontier, 
where  Heaven  greets  Earth,  who  in  stately  garb 
responds  with  the  sublime  salute  of  nature. 

Bang!  Bang!  As  we  round  the  corner  under  the 
shadows  of  the  overhanging  rock^,  we  find  ourselves 
face  to  face  with  a  quartette  of  bandits.  Hist! 
This  is  real,  thrilling  adventure,  bringing  to  mind 
the  weather-beaten,  bullet-ridden  stage  coach  relic  at 
Mammoth. 

"Hands  up!"  comes  the  command.  Hastily  we 
throw  up  our  hands,  wondering  if  we  left  all  of  our 
cash  back  in  the  safe  at  the  hotel.  A  merry  peal  of 
laughter  breaks  the  spell  in  that  lone  spot.  The 
pistols  thrust  into  our  faces  are  from  the  ten-cent 
store,  guaranteed  to  fire  one  hundred  paper  caps 
without  re-loading.  The  funmakers  join  in  the  pro- 
cession of  the  caravan  down  the  steep  unwinding 
mountainside  singing  melodies  from  Robin  Hood. 

Appetites  grow  apace  as  the  stately  elk  is  seen 
grazing  in  content  and  the  little  baby  bear  comes  out 
to  the  cars,  staging  another  hold-up  for  more  sugar. 


XIII 

Sunset  on  the  Summit  of  the  Rockies 

PON  the  summit  of  the  Rockies 
sheathed  in  snow  and  primal  pines 
we  feel  like  "watchers  of  the  skies'* 
at  the  high  altar  where  the  moun- 
tain peaks  are  robed  in  azure  hue — an 
earthly  token  of  its  eternal  majesty! 
The  precipitous  heights  loom  be- 
fore us  as  the  woods  end,  but  winding  up,  foot  by 
foot  under  the  cracking  pressure  of  gasoline  in  the 
motor  cars,  we  are  soon  a  mile  and  a  half  in  the  air 
above  our  friends  at  home,  who  may  now  be  reading 
our  souvenir  postal  cards.  Up  and  up  we  climb, 
amid  the  "shooting  star"  blossoms,  looking  back- 
ward now  and  then  as  the  great  scroll  of  an  epic 
written  by  the  finger  of  God  unfolds  to  wondering 
eyes  at  our  feet. 

Here  the  wrinkled,  rugged  outlines  of  the  peaks 
soften  in  the  approaching  sunset.  Old  Sol  reign- 
ing in  the  west,  still  defiant  and  resplendent — the 
symbol  of  creative  glories  and  visual  proof  of  the 
unseen,  struggles  bravely  against  the  "haunting 
hour''  when  spirit  mysteries  are  to  reign  in  shadows. 
It  seems  a  veritable  ascension  as  we  look  upon  this 

78 


A'top  o'  the  World  79 

great,  silent  mountain,  the  incarnation  of  Faith, 
leading  to  that  peace  in  the  glory  of  the  sun. 

This  is  indeed  the  end  of  a  wonderful  day,  this 
day  in  the  Yellowstone — a  day  in  God's  workshop, 
begun  in  the  light  of  morning  stars — now  transfigured 
with  splendor  in  the  grandeur  of  His  setting  sun. 

How  kaleidoscopic  it  appears!  Rainbow  is  piled 
upon  rainbow;  prisms  are  crowded  in  bewildering 
succession  of  hues  in  a  pageant  of  color — all  called 
to  worship  at  the  glorious  altar  of  the  God  of  Crea- 
tion— the  trysting  place,  where  Heaven  and  Earth 
meet  in  nuptial  panoply! 

It  is  a  picture  beyond  the  power  of  an  artist  to 
depict  on  canvas,  and  words  can  only  suggest  the 
feeling  that  overwhelms  in  this  view  of  a  promised 
land — this  mountain  standing  out  like  "an  amethyst 
of  light — a  sculptured  isle  in  a  blazing  sea  of  gold." 

We  are  ascending  the  famous  Park  promontory, 
the  highest  peak  in  the  park  accessible  to  the  yellow 
* 'chariots."  Thrill  and  chill  come  in  that  ten-mile 
climb.  As  the  summit  is  gained,  we  can  only  stand 
enthralled.  Long  spears  of  sunlight  shoot  out  from 
the  blazing  disc,  like  sentinels  guarding  the  dying  day. 

Look  now  upon  the  outline  of  the  Lake,  lying 
there  like  a  glistening  jewel  in  the  bosom  of  the 
Rockies;  the  stately  snow-capped  peaks;  the  Can- 
yon in  its  chasmed  gloom;  the  plains  and  the  prai- 
ries, the  rolling  hills,  the  winding  rivers,  and  the 
wooded  landscape — one  grand  ensemble  of  Nature 


80  AHop  o'  the  World 

sublime,  pictured  within  the  sweep  of  the  human  eyes 
piercing  the  veil  of  the  real  into  the  land  o'  dreams. 

It  is  on  these  heights  that  we  feel  the  pinnacled 
glory  of  the  mountain.  Here  it  is  possible  for  mor- 
tal vision  to  glimpse  the  earth's  grandeur  and  feel 
the  substances  of  dreams.  As  in  the  sunrise  at  the 
Terraces  of  the  Gods,  we  now  can  understand  the 
awe  and  devotion  of  the  Sun-worshippers  of  long 
ago  to  the  Eternal  light  of  the  east  and  the  west. 

Flecking  the  mountainside,  like  sheep  in  a  green 
pasture,  are  the  filmy  clouds.  As  the  sun's  rim  dips 
behind  the  jagged  peaks  shadows  cling  to  the  pur- 
ple hills  dissolving  into  the  softening  lights  that 
play  down  in  the  valley,  giving  each  peak  its  even- 
ing bath  of  golden  sunshine. 

Slowly  and  majestically,  like  a  King  descending 
from  his  throne,  the  Royal  Sun  gathers  about  him 
the  mantled  light  of  the  fading  day. 

As  the  sun  is  sinking,  a  cloud  sweeps  across  its 
face,  bringing  a  flush  of  fiery  glow,  as  if  the  old  orb 
was  annoyed  at  the  obstruction.  A  dazzling  disc 
glistens  with  the  intensity  of  a  deeper  red,  and  then 
comes  the  purple  tinge,  blending  into  the  orange 
that  blazes  like  heated  sparks  from  the  forge  of 
Vulcan.  Tiny  clouds  that  dare  to  cross  the  path- 
way are  scattered  as  the  Majestic  King  of  Day  in 
his  flaming  chariot  swings  on  in  the  endless  orbit, 
leaving  in  his  farewell  a  promise  of  sweet  dreams. 

And  then,  the  afterglow — Tomorrow  is  pledged. 


XIV 

Yellowstone  Traditions  and  Discoveries 

ROUND  the  fireplace  in  the  camp 
we  hear  the  story  of  the  adventures 
of  Jim  Bridger.  The  untrodden  em- 
pire of  the  Fire  King  is  now  open 
as  a  playground  for  even  babes  and 
children.  The  early  tales  of  ad- 
venturous spirits  conquering  the 
wilderness  fired  the  imagination  of  James  G.  Blaine, 
who,  as  Speaker  of  the  House  of  Representatives, 
signed  the  bill  which  created  the  Park. 

When  one  is  actually  in  the  Park  the  geography 
of  the  United  States  looks  different.  It  seems  to 
furnish  one  a  bird's-eye-view-point  that  brings  the 
boundary  lines  of  state  and  nation  within  quick 
survey. 

Now  for  the  traditions.  The  reminiscences  of 
James  Bridger,  the  Virginia-born  scout,  who  lived 
in  these  mountains  as  early  as  1824,  have  the  com- 
radic  interest  of  a  discoverer.  At  the  age  of  twenty- 
four  he  was  known  as  the  "Old  Man  of  the  Moun- 
tains." It  was  he  who  discovered  the  great  Salt 
Lake  and  the  trails  that  bear  his  name.  He  won 
the  confidence  of  the  Indians,   by  whom  he  was 

81 


82  AHop  o'  the  World 

trusted  and  respected  for  he  later  married  three 
Indian  wives  in  succession,  one  a  Shoshone  Indian 
maid — but  he  always  seemed  to  miss  the  confidence 
of  his  white  brethren  as  to  the  veracity  of  the  appar- 
ently wild  tales  he  told  of  his  newly  discovered 
wonderland. 

James  Bridger  was  a  natural-born  topographer. 
With  a  piece  of  charcoal  and  a  buffalo  skin  he  was 
able  to  mark  out  the  first  outlines  of  the  region  lying 
in  the  trackless  wilderness — the  first  map  of  Yellow- 
stone ever  drawn.  Like  Balboa,  Jim  Bridger  has 
the  distinction  of  being  one  of  the  discoverers, 
although  Ferris,  an  engineer  and  journalist,  wrote 
the  first  account  of  the  region.  He  saw  it  in  1834.  * 
The  very  first  ever  known  in  any  way  of  the  Park 
region  was  through  John  Col|)er  in  1807,  after  he  left  ^ 

the    Lewis    and    Clark  Expedition.     Jim    Bridger 
comes  in  on  the  scene  in  1824-30,  following  Colter's         ^ 
pioneer  adventures. 

During  a  life  of  continuous  adventures  he  related 
tales  that  have  been  handed  down  in  the  archives 
of  the  Park.  Some  day  James  Bridger  should  have 
a  monument  in  Yellowstone.  When  he  returned  to 
civilization  from  the  wonders  of  the  Dreamland  his 
stories  were  not  believed.  Time  has  justified  his 
prophecies  that  Yellowstone  would  one  day  be  looked 
upon  as  one  of  the  seven  wonders  of  the  world. 

James  Bridger's  romantic  picture  of  the  head- 
waters of  the  Yellowstone,  given  in  1852,  was  the 


AHop  0   the  World  88 

first  specific  reference  to  the  uncanny  phenomenon 
of  the  upper  Yellowstone.  He  described  the  lake 
as  sixty  miles  long,  cold  and  pellucid,  lying  em- 
bosomed among  high  precipitous  mountains.  He 
told  how  the  west  side  was  a  sloping  plain,  several 
miles  wide,  with  clumps  of  trees  and  groves  of  pine; 
that  the  ground  resounded  with  the  tread  of  horses; 
geysers  spouting  up  seventy  feet  high,  with  a  ter- 
rific, hissing  noise,  at  regular  intervals.  Waterfalls 
sparkling,  leaping  and  thundering  down  the  preci- 
pices, and  collecting  in  the  prism-colored  pools  be- 
low— the  river  roaring  for  fifteen  miles  through  the 
perpendicular  canyon  at  the  outlet.  He  insisted 
that  in  this  section  the  Great  Springs  were  so  hot 
that  meat  was  readily  cooked  in  them,  and  pictured 
the  marble  baths  on  the  successive  terraces;  and  on 
the  other  side  an  acid  spring,  which  gushes  out  in  a 
river  torrent;  below  a  cave,  which  supplies  "ver- 
milion" war  paint  for  the  savages. 

All  this  was  looked  upon  in  those  days  as  Jim 
Bridger's  yarns.  Today  we  recognize  in  his  crude 
strong  poetic  picture  of  lake,  geyser  basin  and  Cin- 
nabar Mountain  the  Yellowstone  of  today.  No 
periodical  or  newspaper  would  print  Bridger's  crude 
and  illiterate  account  in  those  days.  His  articles 
were  suppressed,  because  the  editors  were  told  that 
if  they  printed  any  of  Jim  Bridger's  yarns  they 
would  be  laughed  out  of  town,  "for  it  was  nothing 
more  than  one  of  James  Bridger's  lies."     Time  has 


84  AHop  o'  the  World 

vindicated  the  "scout  of  the  mountains."  His 
reckless  exaggerations  are  now  the  foundation  of 
poetic  rhapsody.  Jim  Bridger  had  the  basis  of  fact 
and  the  soul  of  truth,  which  a  great  philosopher  said 
"exists  in  things  erroneous." 

One  of  Bridger's  famous  stories  was  concerning 
the  day  he  came  in  sight  of  an  elk,  which  he  fired  at 
but  missed.  He  later  discovered  that  he  was  firing 
at  a  mountain  of  perfectly  transparent  glass,  and  at 
his  rear  was  the  elk  quietly  grazing  while  he  fired  at 
his  image. 

James  Bridger  turned  everything  to  practical 
account,  using  the  phenomena  of  an  echo,  which 
originating  in  one  camp  did  not  return  for  six  hours, 
as  an  ideal  alarm  clock.  Upon  retiring  at  night  he 
would  cry  out,  "Time  to  get  up!"  and  true  to  his 
calculation,  the  alarm  clock  would  roll  back  when 
it  was  necessary  for  Jim  to  get  up  to  see  the  dawn 
six  hours  later. 

Then  there  was  Alum  Creek.  When  he  bathed 
in  it,  it  would  so  draw  his  face  into  shape  that  it  was 
impossible  to  get  it  straightened  out  for  an  hour  or 
so.  There  were  also  the  boiling  pools,  where  he 
used  to  cook  his  lake  trout,  almost  as  soon  as  it 
was  caught. 

The  petrifications  on  Specimen  Ridge  were  his 
art  gallery.  He  claimed  that  the  mountain  was 
cursed  by  a  medicine  man  and  everything  was  in- 
stantly petrified  and  has  remained  so  ever  since. 


AHop  o'  the  World  86 

All  forms  of  life  are  standing  about  in  stone  where 
they  had  fallen  under  petrifying  force.  Even  the 
sage  brush,  grass,  prairie  fowl,  antelope,  elk,  and 
bears  may  there  be  seen  as  perfect  as  in  actual  life. 
Dashing  torrents  and  the  spray  mist  from  them 
stand  forth  in  arrested  motion,  as  if  carved  from 
rock  by  a  sculptor's  chisel.  Flowers  are  blooming 
in  colors  of  crystal,  and  birds  soar  with  wings  spread 
in  motionless  flight,  and  Jim  insisted  that  his  horse 
jumped  across  a  petrified  chasm  because  it  was  a 
place  where  the  attraction  of  gravitation  was  ossi- 
fied. Bless  the  soul  of  James  Bridger!  With  his 
sense  of  humor  and  his  wild  flights  of  imagination 
he  finally  led  the  scientists  on  to  the  new  Eldorado. 

Gold  seekers  did  not  pass  by  the  wonders  of  Yel- 
lowstone, but  they  found  no  treasure.  Curiously 
enough  there  seemed  to  be  a  something  that  deterred 
the  settlers  and  pioneers  from  utilizing  these  won- 
der spots.  With  all  its  tempting  pasture  lands, 
trees  and  wealth  of  color  and  mineral  splendor,  the 
frontier  pioneers  did  not  linger  long  in  the  land  of 
the  geysers. 

It  is  recorded  that  Walter  W.  DeLacy  might  have 
been  given  the  distinction  of  being  the  real  dis- 
coverer of  Yellowstone,  but  he  failed  to  appreciate 
the  importance  of  what  his  eyes  beheld  as  did  Jim 
Bridger.  Today  the  traditions  of  the  old  trappers' 
tales  are  familiar  to  the  children  in  the  schools, 
poring  over   their   geographies,   and   looking   upon 


86  AHop  o   the  World 

that  magic  area  indicated  in  a  yellow  block  on  the 
map,  now  christened  Yellowstone  National  Park. 

Cornelius  Hedges,  a  member  of  the  Washburn- 
Doane  party  of  explorers  who  left  the  Prickley  Pear 
Valley,  below  Helena,  Mont.,  in  1870,  is  officially 
credited  with  being  the  father  of  the  National 
Park  idea.  It  was  an  evening  in  camp  at  the  junc- 
tion of  the  Gibbon  and  Firehole  Rivers.  The  ad- 
venturous explorers,  their  minds  filled  with  the 
glories  of  the  Yellowstone,  were  speaking  of  its 
future.  Some  suggested  that  they  should  file  claims 
to  the  region,  set  up  a  toll  gate  and  charge  admit- 
tance like  a  circus.  But  no.  Mr.  Hedges  finally 
spoke  the  convictions  of  all  when  he  said,  in  effect: 
"Men,  this  is  too  big  a  thing  for  private  gain. 
This  belongs  to  all  the  people.  It  should  be  a 
National  Park,  free  and  open  to  everybody."  Thus 
was  born  the  National  Park  idea. 

The  Earl  of  Dunraven,  the  English  explorer,  vis- 
ited the  Park  in  1874  and  paid  one  of  the  earliest 
tributes  to  Yellowstone:  **A11  honor  then  to  the 
United  States  for  having  bequeathed  as  a  free  gift 
to  man,  the  beauties  and  curiosities  of  'Wonderland.' 
It  was  an  act  worthy  of  a  great  nation,  and  she  will 
have  her  reward  in  the  praise  of  the  present  army  of 
tourists,  no  less  than  in  the  thanks  of  the  genera- 
tions of  them  yet  to  come."  "Dunraven  Pass"  is 
named  in  honor  of  this  English  enthusiast.  Gen- 
eral W.  T,  Sherman   (Old  Tecumseh)   visited  the 


A'top  o'  the  World  87 

Park,  and  added  to  his  classic  utterance:  "War  is 
hell":   "Here  are  evidences  of  hell  in  leash." 

The  only  monument  that  remains  in  the  Park 
recalling  James  Bridger  is  "Bridger's  Lake,"  a  quiet 
little  water  jewel  among  the  mountains  that  he 
loved  so  well.  Around  the  shores  of  these  waters  in 
the  light  of  a  camp  fire,  we  heard  the  traditions  and 
park-lore  from  the  lips  of  an  old  ranger. 

As  he  arose  to  say  good-night,  he  stretched  him- 
self to  full  height: 

"Jim  Bridger's  face  appears  every  night  to  me  in 
fancy  mirrored  in  these  still  waters  and  I  shout  back, 
'Jim,  they  found  it  out — another  miracle  has  hap- 
pened— all  the  world  believes  Jim  Bridger's  yarns'!" 


XV 

-Glories  of  the  Golden  Anniversary  Year 


'HERE  is'^a  glow  and  charm  about 
golden  weddings  that  is  irresistible. 
This  is  the  golden  anniversary 
year  of  Yellowstone.  It  is  cele- 
brated in  a  motion  picture  of  Na- 
ture's great  romance  flashed  upon 
the  screen  of  the  sky  and  earth — in 
God's  open,  where,  under  the  light  of  the  vaulted 
heavens,  an  audience  of  over  one  hundred  thousand 
visitors  will  attend  and  celebrate  the  event. 

The  first  open  door  for  an  acquaintance  with 
Yellowstone  wonders  came  through  the  building  of 
a  transcontinental  railroad.  This  was  followed  by 
the  courage  of  pioneers  in  constructing  hotels  for 
the  tourists,  who  follow  in  the  wake  of  hotels. 

For  more  than  half  a  century  the  Northern  Pacific 
Railway  has  been  active  in  the  development  of 
America's  premier  national  park.  Even  before  the 
last  spike  was  driven,  completing  this  transconti- 
nental railroad  in  1883,  they  had  begun  advertising 
its  wonders,  and  surveyed  a  branch  line  from  Livings- 
ton, Montana,  to  Cinnabar,  later  extending  it  to 
Gardiner.    This  is  the  original  gateway  into  the  Park. 

88 


AHop  o'  the  World  89 

For  many  years  the  returns  were  not  sufficient  to 
pay  for  the  heavy  investment  in  the  park  branch. 
Many  thousands  of  dollars  had  been  expended  in 
providing  accommodations  and  transportation  for 
visitors.  There  were  large  deficits  in  those  days, 
but  the  railroad  continued  to  care  for  the  proper 
handling  of  people  in  the  park,  confident  of  the 
future. 

In  these  critical  times,  the  vision  of  Mr.  Howard 
Elliott,  then  president  of  the  Northern  Pacific  Rail- 
way, carried  Yellowstone  on.  Through  his  leader- 
ship, the  resources  and  credit  of  a  great  railroad 
were  pledged  to  the  park.  New  hotels  were  financed, 
improved  transportation  provided — no  funds  were 
spared  to  make  Yellowstone  easy  to  reach,  to  see 
and  to  enjoy. 

When  others  doubted,  it  was  Howard  Elliott  who 
insisted  that  Yellowstone  should  become  the  world's 
greatest  park.  It  was  his  foresight,  courage  and 
faith  that  drove  ahead  the  Yellowstone's  develop- 
ment in  days  when  faith  was  needed. 

The  Northern  Pacific  brought  America  to  Yellow- 
stone in  the  beginning  and  America  has  spread  its 
fame  and  its  glories.  This  year  nearly  one  hundred 
thousand  people  visited  the  park  and  are  far  richer 
for  the  experience.  The  vision  of  Howard  Elliott 
is  fulfilled. 

Today  the  United  States  government  is  adminis- 
tering and  developing  the  assets  of  its  work  in  a 


90  AHop  d  the  World 

thorough  and  commendable  way  through  Superin- 
tendent H.  M.  Albright,  with  his  loyal  and  efficient 
corps,  counting  much  on  the  co-operation  of  the 
pioneer  railroad. 

The  Old  Inn  at  Mammoth  was  the  pioneer.  In 
1872  Ulysses  S.  Grant,  President  of  the  United 
States,  signed  the  bill  that  made  Yellowstone  Park 
the  playground  of  the  people.  Year  by  year  the 
welcome  has  widened  for  the  traveller-tourist  to  this 
treasure  land  of  Nature. 

The  Yellowstone  Park  hotels  are  accepted  models 
the  world  over.  Harry  W.  Child  built  them.  Chal- 
lenged by  nature,  he  devoted  his  finest  talents  and 
personal  means  to  give  the  park  a  system  of  hotels 
of  which  the  nation  might  be  proud.  Each  one  of 
them  fits  a  particular  environment.  Aided  by  a 
young  architect,  Robert  C.  Reamer,  Mr.  Child 
created  Old  Faithful  Inn,  a  log-cabin  glorified  into 
a  magnificent  hotel. 

They  had  traveled  far  over  the  world  in  search  of 
suggestions,  but  held  to  their  dominant  purpose  to 
construct  everything  in  keeping  with  the  environs 
and  the  site.  Mr.  Child  felt  that  these  features 
could  not  be  improved  upon,  and  that  it  would  be 
an  impertinence  to  strike  a  discordant  note  in  the 
lines  for  these  castles  in  Dreamland. 

There  was  the  old  yellow  Fountain  House,  now 
deserted.  It  was  calcimined  with  the  product  of 
Mammoth's  paint  pots  near  at  hand. 


Photo  by  J.  E.  Hayncs 

The  music  of  the  twain  of  Yellowstone  Falls,  sounding  like  a  great  diapason  oj 
the  organ  playing  the  wedding  march  of  Heaven  and  Earth,  go  on  and  on  forever 


91 


AHop  o'  the  World  93 

In  the  days  gone  by,  stage  coaches,  drawn  by 
prancing  steeds,  pushed  on  through  the  clouds  of 
dust  to  the  scenes  of  mystic  wonders,  at  a  slow  pace 
compared  to  these  days  of  motors. 

Among  these  triumphs  is  the  hotel  at  the  Canyon, 
with  its  square  timbers  so  harmoniously  fitted  to 
reflect  the  spirit  of  the  surroundings.  The  sharp 
angles  of  square  rafters  and  pillars  soften  into  arch- 
ways and  recesses.  Every  vista  is  like  a  framed 
picture.  The  perspective,  looking  down  into  the 
great  Lounge,  or  toward  the  Lobby  from  the  far  end, 
suggests  a  spacious  baronial  hall,  harking  back  to 
the  beauty  and  symmetry  of  Egyptian  temples. 
The  architect  rendered  cryptic  expression  and  car- 
ried the  ideals  of  primal  shrines. 

The  interior  furnishings  are  trophies  brought 
from  all  over  the  world  in  order  to  make  interesting 
this  resting  place  for  the  world  traveller.  The  Lounge 
at  the  Canyon  is  a  view  of  superlative  beauty  and 
restfulness  and  renowned  the  world  over. 

The  building  of  the  Canyon  hotel  is  chronicled  as 
one  of  the  miracles  in  the  constructive  work  in  the 
Park.  It  was  erected  amid  great  hardships  and 
serious  handicaps  during  the  winter  months.  The 
achievement  is  a  tribute  to  the  energy  and  courage 
of  American  craftsmanship.  The  materials  were 
hauled  up  the  mountain  by  two  hundred  teams  and 
fifty  drivers  who  faced  the  fury  of  mountain  blizzards 
with  the  thermometer  racing  down  to  forty  degrees 


94  A'top  o'  the  World 

below  zero.  The  clatter  of  the  hammers  sounded 
like  muffled  musketry  fire  directed  upon  a  real 
machine-gun  nest  "objective." 

"Camp  Roosevelt,"  a  snug  log  hut  camp  named 
for  the  late  President  Roosevelt,  is  surrounded  with 
a  hedge  of  elk  antlers.  These  antlers,  which  are 
seen  here  and  there,  are  not  taken  directly  from  the 
elk.  Each  year  these  animals  shed  their  horns,  as 
if  to  add  something  to  adorn  appropriately  the 
habitations  of  the  Park.  Located  not  far  from  the 
Buffalo  ranch,  Camp  Roosevelt  seems  to  partake  of 
the  virile  spirit  of  the  sturdy  American  for  whom  it 
was  named.  Leading  about  in  all  directions  are  the 
tracks  of  wild  animals. 

Yellowstone  Park  has  been  visited  by  three  Presi- 
dents while  in  office.  President  Arthur  and  his 
Cabinet  were  there  in  '83,  with  a  party  conducted 
by  General  Phil  Sheridan,  the  hero  of  Winchester, 
"20  miles  away."  With  this  party  was  Robert  T. 
Lincoln,  son  of  President  Lincoln,  who  was  at  that 
time  Secretary  of  War.  Senator  Vest  of  Missouri 
here  added  his  eloquent  and  glowing  tribute  to  the 
natural  beauties  of  Yellowstone,  not  forgetting  his 
classic  tribute  to  his  faithful  dog. 

As  President  of  the  United  States,  Theodore 
Roosevelt  laid  the  cornerstone  of  the  Gardiner  Gate- 
way, making  an  address  to  three  thousand  people 
who  had  gathered  from  the  surrounding  country  in 
the  chill  of  April  days  in  1903.     The  vigor  of  the 


AHop  0    the  World  95 

day  suited  well  the  sturdy  spirit  of  the  intrepid 
Roosevelt. 

His  tribute  at  that  time  has  already  become  a 
prophecy  fulfilled. 

On  a  full-orbed  August  day  an  humble,  round 
pool,  lying  near  the  source  of  Obsidian  Creek,  burst 
forth  in  wild  abandon,  throwing  a  column  of  murky 
mud  and  rocks  in  mid-air  over  three  hundred  feet. 
It  continued  for  some  minutes  and  responded,  as 
with  an  encore,  at  irregular  intervals,  shooting  up 
a  column  of  mud  and  water  higher  than  the  Bunker 
Hill  Monument,  breaking  all  altitude  records  for 
geyser-spouting  within  the  park.  A  well-traveled 
automobile  road  and  several  acres  of  geyser  land 
near  Norris  Basin,  were  deluged  with  the  Styxian 
flood,  suggesting  impish  fury  that  the  queenly  purity 
of  an  Old  Faithful  should  have  so  long  held  the 
center  of  the  stage.  Boulders  were  even  fired  by 
hydraulic  pressure,  bombarding  the  automobiles 
waiting  nearby  with  people  while  viewing  this  un- 
usual spectacle. 

This  was  in  the  golden  anniversary  year,  1922, 
and  the  plebian  mud  pool  was  now  christened  "Semi- 
Centennial  Geyser"  in  honor  of  the  fiftieth  anniver- 
sary of  the  opening  of  the  park  as  a  national  play- 
ground. Lights  and  shadows  come  and  go  in  the 
Empire  of  Geyserdom.  The  Prince  of  Darkness 
now  and  then  rallies  his  envoys  of  gloom  and  despair 
— but  the  Queen  of  Day  reigns  supreme  in  her  court 


96  AHop  d  the  World 

of  sunshine,  ever  responding  to  the  first  command 
of  God,  *Xet  there  be  light." 

By  day  and  by  night,  in  storm  and  sunshine, 
courtiers  in  gleaming  armor  of  white  foam  bid  defi- 
ance to  the  mud-flinging  monsters  and  carry  high 
the  shining  symbols  from  earth  to  cloudland,  to 
have  and  to  hold  the  weird  goblin  land  of  geyser 
realms  under  the  celestial  colors  of  light. 


XVI 

Theodore  Roosevelt's  Prophetic  Tribute 
TO  Yellowstone 


D 


URING  a  bitter  cold  day,  April  24, 
1903,  Theodore  Roosevelt,  then  Pres- 
ident of  the  United  States,  delivered 
an  official  estimate  and  personal  trib- 
ute to  Yellowstone  at  the  borders 
of  the  Park.  The  occasion  was  the 
laying  of  the  cornerstone  of  the  im- 
pressive archway  at  the  Gardiner  entrance.  Several 
thousand  people  gathered  from  these  sparsely  settled 
parts  and  listened  with  bared  heads  and  appreciative 
ears  to  this  tribute  from  one  who  knew  and  had  felt 
the  power  of  Nature's  charms  in  God's  open. 

Cowboys  were  there — cowboys  who  rode  the  range 
in  the  eighties  when  young  Roosevelt  was  at  the 
Medora,  Dakota  ranch,  recuperating  and  storing  up 
the  health  and  vigor  that  later  enabled  him  to  hold 
firm  the  torch  of  Conscience  and  light  the  pathway  of 
duty  for  the  people  of  his  beloved  country  during  the 
World  War.  That  vigor,  too,  played  its  part  in  mak- 
ing him  a  man  of  destiny  as  President  of  the  United 
States.  He  understood  this  domain  of  the  free  W^est. 
His  words  at  this  time  are  historic  and  prophetic. 
From    the    hands    of  Mrs.    Roosevelt   herself    I 

97 


98  AHop  0    the  World 

received  a  copy  of  his  treasured  address  at  Yellow- 
stone to  include  as  a  climax  to  my  own  work — a 
voice  from  the  heights — words  which  will  never  be 
forgotten — a  glowing  tribute  to  the  Nation's  Won- 
derland— a  place  **not  wholly  to  be  paralleled  else- 
where on  the  globe." 

"The  Yellowstone  Park  is  something  absolutely  unique 
in  the  world,  .  .  .  Nowhere  else  in  any  civilized  country  is 
there  to  be  found  such  a  tract  of  veritable  wonderland  made 
accessible  to  all  visitors,  where  at  the  same  time  not  only  the 
scenery  of  the  wilderness,  but  the  wild  creatures  of  the  Park 
are  scrupulously  preserved;  the  only  change  being  that  these 
same  wild  creatures  have  been  so  carefully  protected  as  to 
show  a  literall}^  astounding  tameness. 

"The  creation  and  preservation  of  such  a  great  natural 
playground  in  the  interest  of  our  people  as  a  whole  is  a  credit 
to  the  nation;  but  above  all  a  credit  to  Montana,  Wyoming, 
and  Idaho.  It  has  been  preserved  with  wise  foresight,  and 
the  scheme  of  its  preservation  is  noteworthy  in  its  essential 
democracy.  Private  game  preserves,  though  they  may  be 
handled  in  such  a  way  as  to  be  not  only  good  things  for  them- 
selves, but  good  things  for  the  surrounding  community,  can 
yet  never  be  more  than  poor  substitutes,  from  the  standpoint 
of  the  pubhc,  for  great  national  playgrounds  such  as  this 
Yellowstone  Park.  This  Park  was  created,  and  is  now 
administered,  for  the  benefit  and  enjoyment  of  the  people. 

"The  Government  must  continue  to  appropriate  for  it, 
especially  in  the  direction  of  completing  and  perfecting  an 
excellent  system  of  driveways.  But  already  its  beauties  can 
be  seen  with  great  comfort  in  a  short  space  of  time  and  at  an 
astoundingly  small  cost,  and  with  the  sense  on  the  part  of  every 
visitor  that  it  is  in  part  his  property — the  property  of  Uncle 
Sam,  and  therefore  of  all  of  us. 

"When  we  have  a  good  system  of  carriage  roads  throughout 
the  Park — for,  of  course,  it  would  be  very  unwise  to  allow 
either  steam  or  electric  roads  in  the  Park — we  shall  have  a 
region  as  easy  and  accessible  to  travel  in,  as  it  is  already  every 


A'top  o    the  World  ^9 

whit  as  interesting  as  any  similar  territory  of  the  Alps  or  the 
Italian  Riviera.  The  geysers,  the  extraordinary  hot  springs, 
the  lakes,  the  mountains,  the  canyons,  and  cataracts,  unite 
to  make  this  region  something  not  wholly  to  be  paralleled 
elsewhere  on  the  globe.  It  must  be  kept  for  the  benefit  and 
enjoyment  of  all  of  us;  and  I  hope  to  see  a  steadily  increasing 
number  of  our  people  take  advantage  of  its  attractions.  At 
present  it  is  rather  singular  that  a  greater  number  of  people 
come  from  Europe  to  see  it  than  come  from  our  own  eastern 
states.  The  people  nearby  seem  awake  to  its  beauties;  and 
I  hope  that  more  and  more  of  our  people  who  dwell  far  off 
will  appreciate  its  really  marvellous  character. 

*T  have  always  thought  it  was  a  liberal  education  to  any  man 
of  the  East  to  come  West,  and  he  can  combine  profit  with 
pleasure  if  he  will  incidentally  visit  this  Park,  the  Grand 
Canyon  of  Colorado,  and  Yosemite,  and  take  the  sea  voyage 
to  Alaska. 

"But  of  course  this  Park,  also  because  of  its  peculiar  feat- 
ures, is  to  be  preserved  as  a  beautiful  natural  playground. 
Here  all  the  wild  creatures  of  the  old  days  are  being  preserved, 
and  their  overflow  into  the  surrounding  country,  so  long  as  the 
laws  are  observed  by  all,  will  ensure  to  the  people  and  to  their 
children  and  to  their  children's  children  much  of  the  old-time 
pleasure  of  the  hardy  life  of  the  wilderness  and  of  the  hunter 
in  the  wilderness.  This  pleasure,  moreover,  can,  under  such 
conditions,  be  kept  for  all  who  have  the  love  of  adventure 
and  the  hardihood  to  take  advantage  of  it,  with  small  regard 
for  what  their  fortune  may  be.  I  cannot  too  often  repeat 
that  the  essential  feature  in  the  present  management  of  the 
Yellowstone  Park,  as  in  all  similar  places,  is  its  essential 
democracy — it  is  the  preservation  of  the  scenery,  of  the  forests, 
of  the  wilderness  life  and  the  wilderness  game  for  the  people 
as  a  whole,  instead  of  leaving  the  enjoyment  thereof  confined 
to  the  very  rich  who  can  control  private  reserves.  I  have 
been  literally  astounded  at  the  enormous  numbers  of  elk, 
deer,  antelope,  and  mountain  sheep  which  I  have  seen  on 
their  wintering  grounds;  and  the  deer  and  sheep  in  particular 
are  quite  as  tame  as  range  stock.  This  is  a  territory  which 
I  look  to  see  develop  astoundingly  within  the  next  decade  or 
two." 


100  AHop  'o  the  World 

Nineteen  years  after  this  utterance  Yellowstone 
Park  has  witnessed  the  prophecy  fulfilled  and  going 
on  to  further  fulfillment.  Nearly  one  hundred  thou- 
sand people  of  varied  wealth  and  station  have  rev- 
elled in  the  delights  of  Yellowstone  Dreamland 
within  the  three  brief  summer  months.  Its  wonder- 
ful highways  are  open  to  the  public.  The  records 
of  W.  M.  Nichols,  in  charge  of  hotels  and  transporta- 
tion, and  the  report  of  Superintendent  Albright, 
director  of  the  park,  prove  mathematically  that  the 
fiftieth  anniversary  year  of  Yellowstone  Park  was 
a  golden  memory  to  a  myriad  of  delighted  guests 
in  Uncle  Sam's  great  playground  domain. 


cnoto  Dy  J.  b..  h-iaync> 

Atop  o'  Mt.  Washburn,  the  one  point  where  the  visitor  feels  that  he  is  truly  above  the 
world.  The  road  leading  to  the  summit  of  this  peak  of  the  Rockies  is  a  marvel  of 
engineering.  Here  the  visitors  may  enjoy  a  blizzard  in  July,  coming  in  contact  with 
the  caprice  of  nature  in  cloudland.  Traveling  by  automobile  to  this  summit  is  a  thrill 
of  mountain  climbing.      The  altitude  is  over  10,000  feet— two  miles  in  mid-air  above 

sea  level 


i^hoto  by  J.  Ll.  Hayncs 

There  is  a  magnetic  majesty  about  Electric  Peak,  eleven  thcusard  feet  high.  It  is  the 
highest  mountain  in  the  Park.  The  mountain  contains  a  large  amount  of  magnetic 
ore,  which  defies  all  surveying  instruments  and  invites  lightning  flashes  during  an 
electric  storm,  vividly  portraying  the  battlements  of  heaven,  furnishing  a  glare  that  no 
human  device  has  ever  been  able  to  simulate 

101 


Copyright  by  J.  E.  Haynes 

The  nuptials  of  heaven  and  earth  are  vividly  portrayed  at  Hymen  Terrace  near 
Mammoth  Hot  Springs.     It  is  a  glow  of  color  that  thrills  the  heart  of  the  artist. 
A  veil  of  steam  softens  and  blends  its  vivid  colorings,  while  innumerable  water- 
glazed  knobs  reflect  the  sunlight  like  a  thousand  mirrors 


*hotc)  by  J.  l£.  1  laynes 

At  a  fitting  celebration  of  the  golden  anniversary  of  Yellowstone  Park,  Superinten- 
dent H.  M.Albright  and  C.  W.Coqk,  explorer  of  the  Cook  and  Folsom  Expedition 
of  i86g,  gathered  at  the  junction  sign  to  do  honor  to  the  occasion,  while  Miss 
Dixie  Anzer  christened  the  sign  with  the  floral  emblem 
102 


XVII 

"Every  Gate  a  Pearl"  of  Nature's 
vs^onders 

IKE  King  Solomon's  Temple,  Yellow- 
stone has  four  gates  indicated  by  the 
points  of  the  compass — North,  South, 
East  and  West.  Each  entrance  has 
its  own  distinctive  and  varied  charm. 
One  eminent  American  has  remarked 
that  these  four  portals  encompass 
scenic  vestibules  unsurpassed,  and  that  the  tourist 
does  not  fully  know  the  park  unless  touching  at  more 
than  one  of  these  unparalleled  pathways  to  Nature's 
w^onderland  blazed  through  the  trackless  Rockies. 

When  the  Northern  Pacific  pioneered  in  opening 
the  Gardiner  Gateway,  and  when  the  Union  Pacific 
pushed  on  over  mountain  and  valley  to  open  the 
West  Yellowstone  Entrance,  it  required  vision  and 
courage.  The  task  was  a  triumph  in  further  ex- 
panding the  myriad  vistas  to  the  great  throngs  of 
tourists,  with  a  scroll  of  scenic  grandeur  in  the 
approach  to  this  acme  of  Nature's  allurements.  I 
have  told  you  of  Gardiner,  the  original. 

When  the  long  passenger  trains,  following  the 
Overland  Trails,  or  after  a  night's  run  from  Salt 
Lake,  arrive  at  West  Yellowstone,  there  is  first  of 

103 


104  AHop  o'  the  World 

all  a  meal  at  the  restaurant  that  has  the  suggestions 
of  a  Waldorf  spread.  It  is  a  repast  that  has  the 
blend  of  Biltmore's  best  and  mother's  own  break- 
fast. It  is  served  with  a  smile  and  carries  a  welcome 
that  makes  the  visitor  look  forward  to  a  few  days  of 
unalloyed  pleasure  and  freedom  in  a  gambol  amid 
the  wilds  of  primeval  nature. 

The  West  Yellowstone  entrance  is  a  mountain 
village  in  the  making.  This  is  the  panorama  sug- 
gested in  the  surroundings,  the  winding  drive  down 
the  Madison  River,  bordered  by  mountains,  fes- 
tooned with  pines.  There  is  an  air  of  freedom  that 
comes  when  passing  the  boundary  line,  looking  out 
upon  the  snow-capped  peaks  standing  out  like 
sentinels  eternal.  The  West  Yellowstone  entrance, 
paradoxical  as  it  may  seem,  is  the  gateway  for  many 
thousands  from  the  East. 

The  new  station,  enveloped  in  its  mountainesque 
atmosphere  of  a  Swiss  chalet,  contains  rest  rooms 
where  the  traveler,  going  or  coming,  may  brush  up, 
wash  up,  rest  up  and  prepare,  if  he  needs,  for  a  social 
function  after  a  day's  drive  through  the  park.  Here 
the  tourists,  arriving  and  departing,  continue  the 
bombardment  of  souvenir  postals  fast  and  furious. 
Many  postals  are  written  with  sentiments  of  fare- 
well, by  those  arriving,  as  if  they  were  leaving  for  a 
foreign  land.  The  tides  of  tourist  travel  here  meet 
with  the  ebb  of  those  leaving,  and  the  flow  of  those 
who  are  to  ever  after  refer  to  the   "days  I  was  in 


AHop  o    the  World  105 

Yellowstone"  with  an  air  of  pleasant  reminiscence 
and  supreme  satisfaction. 

The  yellow  label  of  Yellowstone,  with  its  bear 
crest  on  valise,  suit  case,  or  trunk,  is  a  hallmark  of 
distinction  to  the  American  traveler.  It  is  the 
mark  of  a  climax  or  post-graduate  travel  course. 
Yellowstone  Park  unfolds  to  the  tourists,  mile 
by  mile  the  scroll  of  Yellowstone  wonders,  leading 
on  to  climax  after  clim.ax,  until  the  realities  of  the 
photographs  seem  tame.  Rolling  over  the  fine 
roads  in  the  yellow-bus  chariots,  the  visitor  pinches 
himself  and  finds  in  this  dreamland  a  realization  that 
surpasses  all  fantastic  conceptions.  Whether  it  is 
North  or  West,  East  or  South,  the  entrances  to 
Yellowstone  mark  the  spot  where  the  curtains  are 
drawn  and  the  dramatic  revelation  of  Nature's 
wonders  proceeds,  without  plot  or  sequence,  in 
scenes  that  thrill  with  the  vision  of  Revelations — 
''and  every  gate  a  pearl" — of  memories  that  abide. 


XVIII 

Mother  Earth's  Day  of  Peace  Eternal 

^^M.  /^^  OLDEN,  glorious   hours    in    a  day  of 
I^OT  VJ.    peace  eternal   are  the  memories  that 
]p^^^i,__^^      remain  of  my  tour  of  the  park. 
:^j^^^^^  Every  part   of   each   day  has   its 

y^S^^^I  moods.  Every  scene  fits  into  its  ap- 
^^^^^^;  propriate  niche.  An  oriflamme,  herald- 
ing the  symbol  of  mature  motherhood 
appears  so  supreme,  so  kind,  so  maternal  in  these 
days.  She  understands,  as  a  mother  would,  every- 
thing that  might  come  to  pass.  And  I  just  laid  my 
head  in  Mother  Nature's  lap  and  let  her  tell  me 
stories.  Here  she  reigns  supreme;  man  and  beast, 
bird  and  fish  seem  to  realize  that  they  belong  to 
the  one  great  kinship  in  the  household  of  God. 

Mother  Earth  Eternal  is  ever  ready  to  comfort 
and  to  heal  the  wounds  of  her  children;  the  scars 
of  Time  struggles  are  softened  in  the  beauties  of 
floral  remembrance,  ready  to  hold  us  to  her  great 
breast  and  to  soothe  us  off  to  slumberland;  ready 
to  care  for  the  weak  and  to  rejoice  in  the  dominant 
strength  and  grandeur  that  creation  presents  to  adorn 
this  realm.  In  her  moments  of  wrath,  she  defends  her 
own  with  the  ferocity  of  a  mother  shielding  her  young. 

106 


AHop  o    the  World  107 

Mother  Earth's  peace  conference  agenda  is  trans- 
cendent in  proving  the  impregnable  honesty  of 
nature,  as  the  ideal  motive  of  life — away  from  the 
language  of  lies,  and  speaking  the  heart  truth. 
Every  creature,  every  light  and  shadow,  things  ani- 
mate and  things  inanimate — all  join  us  in  a  tribute 
to  the  great  Mother,  who  reigns  in  her  Day  Eternal. 

There  is  no  heavy  alarm  of  thunder,  and  the 
tongues  of  lightning  speak  without  roar  or  pomp. 
The  week  is  even  as  a  day  in  this  sanctuary  where 
God  and  man  dwell  at  peace  with  all  things.  The 
trapper  and  the  huntsman  have  gone;  the  Indian 
and  the  soldier  have  passed  away;  and  as  we  stand 
in  the  midst  of  Nature's  glories,  we  fancy  that  we 
hear  the  song  that  the  cowboy  sang  to  his  cattle  in 
years  gone  by,  while  the  Indian  lighted  his  signal 
fires,  which  were  flashed  back  in  reply  from  the 
vastness  of  the  mountains  many  miles  in  the  dis- 
tance— but  now  all  is  peace — the  hope  of  the  world 
— in  the  harmony  of  happiness. 

The  enchantment  is  intensified  in  the  understand- 
ing of  every  passing  moment  of  the  day  and  night. 
Each  has  its  influence  and  plays  its  part  in  this 
great  arena,  where  generations  ago,  the  tourists  be- 
gan to  gather,  following  in  the  footsteps  of  the  early 
adventurers  who  blazed  the  old  trails.  We  think  of 
the  brave  pioneers  who  traversed  these  labyrinths 
of  fallen  timbers  and  builded  the  roads  through  this 
primeval  fastness,  where  sunshine  turns  the  clear 


108  A'top  o'  the  World 

water  into  glittering  crystals  and  plays  with  the 
curtains  of  steam  from  the  geysers. 

In  all  this  we  seem  to  feel  the  benediction  of  the 
23rd  Psalm  and  hear  the  voice  of  David  singing. 
Mother  Earth  as  shepherdess  day  and  night  cares  for 
her  own  and  want  is  unknown.  Here  are  the  green 
pastures  and  the  still  waters.  We  walk  through 
the  valleys  and  the  shadows,  and  yet  man  or  beast 
fear  no  evil,  for  God  is  there.  The  rod  and  staff  of 
Mother  Earth  ever  sustains  and  comforts.  Before 
us  is  spread  a  table  in  the  presence  of  the  Devil 
and  his  furies,  and  the  soul  is  annointed  with  the 
oil  of  kindness.  Everywhere  goodness  and  mercy 
seem  to  follow  in  the  hours  of  eternal  day.  From 
the  bosom  of  Mother  Earth  comes  all  of  the  sus- 
tenance of  man  and  beast. 

Looking  upon  Mother  Earth  we  see  the  reflection 
of  our  own  mother's  eyes,  and  recall  tender  days  of 
childhood  when  in  joy  and  sorrows  we  always  found 
our  refuge  with  Mother.  There  is  only  one  mother 
— one  who  seems  to  always  know  and  understand  at 
all  times  and  during  all  time.  What  a  comfort  to 
know  that  Mother  Earth  will  at  last  enfold  us.  She 
reveals  a  blush  of  pride  on  her  cheeks  as  she  travels 
on  in  limitless  space  and  turns  the  splendors  of 
Yellowstone  to  the  greeting  of  the  golden  sunrise,  or 
to  the  glory  of  the  moonbeams  that  fall  like  a  curtain 
of  light  in  the  blue  Bethlehem  sky  of  the  night 
heralding  the  enthronement  of  maternity. 


AHop  o'  the  World  109 

As  I  stood  on  the  bridge  immersed  in  a  floodtide  of 
life  memories  I  could  feel  the  spirit  of  my  sainted 
mother  close  at  hand.  The  touch  of  a  vanished  hand 
on  a  fevered  brow;  her  blue  eyes,  the  beacon  light  of 
my  life,  looking  into  my  own — flesh  of  her  flesh — 
soul  of  her  soul.     Mother — our  ideal  of  eternal  love. 

A  little  gust  of  wind  pushed  along  a  folded  paper 
that  someone  had  dropped.  I  stooped  to  pick  up 
the  waif.  Here  I  found  this  tribute  written  in  hand- 
writing on  a  page  dotted  with  teardrops.  The 
author's  name  was  not  given,  but  someone  in  an 
outburst  of  heart-love  to  Mother  expressed  my 
emotions  on  that  day  "A'top  o'  the  World,"  when 
I  seemed  very  close  to  the  dear  old  days  with  my 
Mother  and  nearer  the  Heaven  where  she  abides. 

"I  count  my  mother  the  most  precious  gift  of  God.  Her 
love  answers  every  longing.  I  yield  to  her  affections  and  in 
doing  so  I  am  not  deceived.  Her  trust  in  God  reveals  to  me 
a  faith  which  is  like  a  star  in  darkness  and  uncertainty. 
Prayers  from  her  lips  urge  me  to  carry  on.  The  sovereignty 
of  my  soul  is  strengthened  by  her  patience  and  guidance. 
On  her  bosom  I  find  a  refuge  that  nourishes  me  back  to 
strength.  Her  words  are  measured  in  the  depths  of  sin- 
cerity.    Her  symbol  of  Truth  has  won  inviolable  love." 

In  Mother  Earth's  welcome  to  this  garden  of 
dreams  she  gives  to  us  all  a  vision  of  a  peaceful  Day 
Eternal;  stretching  from  morning  stars  to  succeed- 
ing dawn,  the  lullaby  that  she  sings  is  ever  attuned 
to  the  harmonies  of  the  great  oratorio  of  Time,  while 
angels  joyfully  sing  the  endless  choral  of  creation: 

"In  the  beginning  God  created  the  Heaven  and  the  Earth." 


